


And the moon became as blood

by Zara_Zee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Bottom Dean, M/M, Permanently-injured Dean Winchester, Raised Apart, Religion, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Show-level horror and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-23 13:29:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zara_Zee/pseuds/Zara_Zee
Summary: Dean Winchester is a Preacher, from a long line of Preachers. He believes unreservedly in The Revelation of The End Times; he sees the evidence of its truth in the desolate dying world all around him every day. The End is coming. It is unstoppable. Humankind’s destiny is a foregone conclusion.And then a Hunter arrives at Dean’s Church and asks him a frightening question: What if the future isn’t set? What if The End of Days can be stopped?The Hunter’s name is Sam and he speaks Heresy. But he also knows Dean far better than any stranger should, and Dean quickly finds himself captivated by the man’s vision of a better future.And so begins an epic quest across the Badlands: a quest for knowledge and truth; a quest for freedom; and, ultimately, a quest for humanity’s very existence.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _1) A HUGE thank you to my fabulous artist, the wonderful Millygal, whose enthusiasm for this project and the way she poured herself into creating art was just awe-inspiring. I love everything she did and you should definitely check out her master art post and shower her with love! Milly, you were SUCH a pleasure to work with and you're so very talented. I hope we get the chance to create stuff together again!! ♥_  
>  _2) Not so long ago the incredibly talented Amberdreams produced a reversebang art prompt which my muse got very excited about. I wasn’t able to claim it and another author wrote a wonderful fic about it, but my idea wouldn’t leave me alone. I mentioned this to Amber who said I should go for it. This is the result. So inspiration credit for this story must go, not just to our fabulous Show and its talented leads, but also to Amber’s art._    
>  _3) Thank you to my beta reader Endlessevalina, for correction of typos, for overall feedback and for telling me I probably should write that sex scene and not just fade to black..._  
>  _4) And finally, as always, thanks must go to Wendy for organising and hosting this challenge once again. Wendy always downplays her contribution, but she is the lynchpin, and we'd all be lost without her!_

**_More Author's Notes_ **

_This story is set in an Alternative Universe. In the SPN Canon Apocalypse!World Sam and Dean were never born. In this world Sam and Dean were born, but their circumstances are very different to SPN Canon. While this world is similar in many ways to ours, the time lines are not exactly the same. Some things that happened in our world happened earlier, later or not at all in this one._  
  
_In this world, Hunters are an ethnic and culturally distinct population, an idea that has fascinated me since I first read[The Girl from Outside](https://archiveofourown.org/works/627299) by Honeylocusttree. I have imagined them as having some elements in common with Irish Travellers.  _

_I **t has come to my attention that the snippets of text at the beginning of each chapter that are presented in picture format, don't show up in epub format. I'm therefore adding that text into each chapter, as text, for epub purposes.**_

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_“When the sixth seal was opened, it unleashed a great earthquake, and the sun became as black as sackcloth, the moon became as blood, and the stars of the sky fell to the earth, like unripe figs dropped from a tree shaken by a great wind. The sky receded like a scroll being rolled up, and every mountain and island was moved from its place. Then, the wisest of those on Earth, those who knew the secret ways and understood the signs, hid in the caves, among the rocks of the mountains…” **Translated excerpt from End Times Biblical Lore as compiled by the Hunter Clan, Campbell.**_

 

Sam Campbell first entered the Clan’s Ceremonial Cave as a baby, for his _Ainmniú_ Ceremony.

He didn’t remember it, obviously, but he knew that he’d been doused with Holy Water and had his name formally added to the Clan Journal. 

He entered for the second time as a seven-year-old boy to get his Clan mark; a tattoo on his chest that not only identified which Hunter Clan he was from, but had the added bonus of being a protective sigil too.

He entered the Ceremonial Cave for the third time at sixteen, for his _Deasghnátha,_ where he received yet another tattoo, this one across his ribs, and designed to hide him from Angels. He also received his First Rites as part of his _Deasghnátha_ , choosing, as was common, to learn the sexual arts at the hands of both a woman and a man. Sam found that he preferred sharing pleasures with a man, and that _wasn’t_ common, but it also wasn’t frowned upon by Hunters like it was among the Scavengers.

It was also officially confirmed during the course of his _Deasghnátha_ , that Sam was a Seer. Not a powerful Seer like Missouri Moseley or Pamela Barnes, but able to receive Visions of the future, none-the-less.

Unfortunately, Sam’s gift was sporadic and fragmentary and not much use when it came to the everyday needs of the Clan, so Sam, after a fruitless month spent working in the Cave of Seers, was assigned to work with Bobby, as a Librarian, a job he enjoyed very much. 

Being a Librarian was an exciting job. Not only did Sam get to read, restore and carefully catalog precious historical books and papers, he also got to go on Foraging Expeditions, to find and bring back Publications.

Which, in a roundabout way, is how Sam ended up in the Ceremonial Cave for the fourth time. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter One

_“The move into The Caves is complete. I am grateful that my boys understand the necessity; that they were instrumental in convincing so many of the younger Hunters that this is our Destiny. Too many of our younger people have become complacent, succumbing to the temptations of Outside, reading less, studying Lore less, adopting_ Gazhe _culture. Modern life has made it difficult to maintain our Traditions. In America, no longer were we nomadic clans with a host of caravans. Instead, we had to settle in place, send our children to Outside schools. It is better if Hunters don’t mix. If we stick to the old ways. And now, that is what we will do. We alone will see out the End of Days, free and unravaged. We will not be lost with the rest of humanity…” **Excerpt from Campbell Clan Journal, Entry by Jebediah Campbell, 2 nd November 1966  ** _

 

A million tiny freaks were pounding on the inside of Sam’s skull with their clubs, and fire was raining down behind his eyelids. He groaned and Bobby’s voice boomed right next to his ear, almost immediately:

“He’s awake!”

Ah Hell. And now the nausea.

Sam rolled onto his side and vomited violently.

“Ew!” said Jo.

“Shhh, y’all,” Ellen whispered. “You know how he gets after a Vision.”

She said _Vision_ reverently; the capitalization obvious in her tone, like the fact that Sam sometimes got useless flashes of blood and horror that had never yet enabled him to save a single person’s life was somehow _special_.  

Although this one…this one had been weird. Even for him.

Sam flopped onto his back with another groan

“We got the good stuff in the First Aid Kit?” Bobby asked.

“Of course,” Ellen replied. “But I don’t wanna dose him with that. It ain’t safe out here and that shit knocks him out. We might need him to run. Or fight.”

Good point.

They were in the ruins of what had once been Las Cruces, New Mexico, combing through what was left of City Hall, looking for Records. They’d got a good stash too, a bunch of birth, death and marriage registrations and several years’ worth of Town Council Minutes. 

The End of the World wasn’t something that had happened quickly. Planet Earth hadn’t gone go out with a sudden, all-consuming bang; it was staggering to its end slowly; like a cancer-ridden dementia patient who lingers, a shadow of their former self, dying in small losses, a bit at a time.

When things started to get bad—rains-of-toad, rivers-of-blood bad—the bureaucrats began to make hard copy backups of everything. It was a good move, because the satellites all fell out of the sky when the sun started to sputter-flare and the moon turned red. They lost the internet early on, but managed to hang on to electricity; not on a large scale, not in grids across the country, but there were diesel and methane generators here and there, even today. Still, it had become apparent—even to the evangelical ultra-conservative parties that held sway in the last few Governments before the Revelation—that important information had to be stored in a way that would be accessible in a post-technological apocalyptic world.

Of course, Scavengers didn’t care about the written word, and The Church of the End Times which now controlled what was left of ‘civilization’ had decreed reading and writing black arts, punishable by a flogging; or worse, for repeat offenders. Members of the Church Hierarchy were the only ones permitted to read. As Grandpa Samuel often said, the best way to control the message is to ensure you’re the only ones with direct access to it.  

Hunters, of course, were Heretics and operated largely outside the jurisdiction of The Church and its Preachers.  

Having collected as many records as they could reasonably carry in the Jeep, Bobby had been making noises about heading out and making for the nearest Sanctuary when Sam had opened a desk drawer and found a magazine with a picture of a big black car on the front. The moment his eyes had lighted on that car, Sam had been gone, thrown into a series of rapid-fire micro Visions that it was going to take a lot of meditation work with Pam to unpack and sort through.

Like the ruins of most towns and all big cities, this one was home to a large population of freaks and although they _could_ move about during the day, they generally chose not to. The setting of the sun and the rising of the blood red moon, always brought them out, though, which meant they needed to make Sanctuary well before dusk. And even though this town had a lot of churches (over thirty according to the Records, as well as a couple of Synagogues) none of the ones they’d passed on the way in had given off the buzz that Sam had come to associate with Sanctuary.

Detecting Sanctuary was one of the few practical skills that came with Sam’s gift.

Ellen was right. They needed him in good shape.

Sam figured it was time to make an effort to get back in the game.

“M’ok,” he slurred, prising his eyelids open.   

Spears of fork-lightning stabbed into his eyes like lances. Or, you know, there was light, which was pretty much the same thing after a vision. Sam shut his eyes again quickly and swallowed back another bout of nausea.

And then Ellen’s cool hands were on his head, massaging his throbbing temples and soothing the agony.

Sam groaned again, appreciatively this time. Jo sniggered, knowing and dirty and Sam couldn’t help smiling.

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen admonished. “Manners.”

“What?” Jo said. “Ain’t like we don’t all know that’s what he sounds like when he’s getting laid. The sleeping quarters ain’t that big and they sure as Hell ain’t soundproof.”

“Which is why manners and discretion are so important,” Ellen said. “Now go and help Bobby pack all them records into the Jeep.”

Jo stomped away, grumbling.

Ellen opened up the First Aid Kit and pulled out a small handkerchief which she doused in peppermint oil. She handed it to Sam, who held it beneath his nose and breathed deeply while Ellen continued massaging his head, neck and shoulders.  Sam floated in a haze of mint and gradually he began to feel the tension and pain receding. Finally, Ellen coaxed him into sitting up, which he managed without wanting to throw up again.

“Here,” she said, handing him an enamel travel mug half-filled with tea. “It’s Missouri’s special blend.”

Which Sam knew was St John’s wort, ginseng, ginger and peppermint.

“We’ve got Tylenol too if you think you need it,”

Sam shook his head. Medications made Before the Revelation were in short supply these days and needed to be conserved as much as possible. Sam was already feeling a lot better.

“Can I have the map?” he asked. “I want to try scrying for Sanctuary.”

Ellen pulled the roadmap of Las Cruces out of her backpack and unfolded it, spreading it out across Sam’s lap.  

Sam took off the Egyptian Bullman necklace that Bobby had given him for his _Deasghnátha_ and held it over the map. He cleared his mind as he’d been taught and asked his question: where will I find Sanctuary. Almost immediately, the bullhead leapt up and slightly to the right, pointing to somewhere off the map.

Sam frowned. “Sanctuary,” he repeated out loud. “Where will I find Sanctuary? The bullhead juddered, but stayed stubbornly off the map.

Sam frowned again. “What do you think it’s pointing at?” he asked Ellen.

Ellen pursed her lips. “If this was a map of America, I think it’d be pointing at…Kansas.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Well that’s no use.”

He concentrated and focused his energy on Las Cruces. He pictured a generic church and asked to be pointed in the direction of the nearest Sanctuary. The bullhead juddered again and then swung back to point at the San Albino Church of Mesilla. Sam asked the question three times and each time the bullhead remained staunchly in place.

“Okay,” Sam said. “San Albino it is. How long do you think it’ll take to get there?”

Ellen pursed her lips. “Hard to say. It all depends on the condition of the roads, potholes, roadblocks and what-have-you. And what we have to deal with in terms of freaks and Scavengers. My best guess,” she paused, her head tilted and a faraway expression in her eyes. “I’d say about half an hour if we get lucky. If not,” she shrugged.

“Right,” Sam said. “Let’s round up the troops and fall out then.”

Twenty minutes later the team was in the Jeep. Bobby was driving, Sam was navigating, Ellen was standing in the center of the back, feet braced on the floor and her head and torso (and her AR-15 ) sticking up through the roof hatch, and Jo was sitting beside her, facing the rear and watching their six.   

It hadn’t taken long for the desert grasslands to reclaim Las Cruces. Tornillo, catclaw acacia and various other forms of desert scrub had pushed its way through the sidewalks and the roads, and the red sands of the Chihuahuan Desert had reclaimed the asphalt and concrete and carefully created parklands and gardens.

The Jeep got decent traction on the sand-strewn road, but Bobby took it easy, careful to avoid sudden acceleration, and squeezing on the brakes cautiously. They travelled at a good pace, making good time. Sam was on full alert, eyes sharp and all his senses—including his extra senses—tuned to his surroundings, vigilantly trying to detect any hint of danger. But there were no flashes of movement at his periphery. No sounds that may have indicated pursuit. No buzzing, skin-crawling sense of danger. And there were no major obstructions on the road until they got to the overpass, which was no longer passing over Main Street, but rather collapsed on top of it in a heaping pile of rubble.

“Well, shit,” said Bobby.

“Have to go ‘round,” Ellen opined from her rooftop position.

“Ya think?” Bobby grouched, taking off his ball cap and scratching at his head.

Sam reached out with his senses, trying to gauge the lie of the land. There were freaks dotted about, but no great clusters of them; nothing they couldn’t deal with. Sam reached further, questing, and then, right on the outskirts of town, near where the farthest housing estate bordered the desert, he _felt_ something old and evil.

Bobby edged the Jeep around the debris of the collapsed overpass and drove off road, through the large grounds of a caravan and campervan dealership—which had been pretty thoroughly looted if the absence of vehicles and burnt out husk of the Showroom was anything to go by—and then through what Sam thought might have once been a vineyard. They were able to get back onto the road at that point, although calling it a road was a joke, given that the asphalt had been completely reclaimed by the sands in this neighborhood. They’d only gone a few miles when a huge stinking pit, belching hot sulphurous gases into the air, blocked their passage.

Ellen immediately dropped back inside the car, slamming the roof hatch closed behind her.

“God almighty,” she wheezed, waving a hand in front of her nose as her eyes watered.

“God had nothing to do with that,” Sam said.

Bobby grimaced. “Guess we’re detouring again.”

Sam nodded. “Better make it quick before something demonic decides to come up outta there.”

The Hell pit, they discovered, was maybe a mile long, by a mile wide; more of a crater than a hole, and it took some getting around.  They ended up driving through what had once been The Desert Sunset Housing estate and the deeper into it they got, the more the psychic buzz of the infected filled Sam’s mind.

The demonic Croatoan virus had been released by Niveus Pharmaceuticals in the early 1990s, in order to prepare the world for Lucifer’s Rising. The blood-borne virus caused a murderous rage in the people it infected, complete with foaming at the mouth, red-tinged eyes and the instinctive desire to bite and infect others.

When Lucifer rose, on 6th June, 1999, so too did stinking Hell Pits, like the one they had just skirted. They varied in size and in the manner of Hellspawn that came up from them. Some Arch-demons made it through, but most of them went back to Hell as soon as the first winter hit. They came up to hunt occasionally, if the summer was really hot, but for the most part they preferred to stay in Hell. Zombies and ghouls were extremely common. So too were hellhounds and blackdogs.  

Initially, the hellhounds had been a real problem, wiping out entire communities due to the fact that they were lethal, ravenous, intelligent hunters, with the added bonus of being invisible.

Seven days after Lucifer rose, the Angels descended en masse and Revealed themselves to humanity. Something about the Revelation also affected the hellhounds, causing them to be visible in the human dimension. Rakshasa also lost their capacity to become invisible, and the Fae too, found that they were no longer hidden from the human eye, although the vast majority of them had returned to the Fae Realm when Lucifer rose anyway. 

Other things came up from the bowels of Hell too. Old things; nameless and dark. When these things brushed against Sam’s psychic awareness, it made his stomach roil and his heart race.

A flash of movement caught Sam’s eye and he turned his head to see half a dozen croats come pouring out of what was probably a very nice Spanish style house before its windows were shattered and its cream-rendered walls were stained with something black and viscous.   

“Company,” he said, as Bobby cursed beside him and stepped on the gas.

Ellen was on her feet immediately, AR-15 resting in its cradle on the roof as she picked off their pursuers one at a time with carefully aimed headshots.

The Jeep skidded on the sandy road and Bobby cursed again, the steering wheel gripped tightly in his fists as he eased off the accelerator and then pressed it softly, regaining traction.

More croats came running at them from the front, wielding tire irons, sledge hammers, baseball bats and even the occasional long-handled broom.

“Shit,” said Jo. “That woman over there’s got a sawn-off shot gun!”

“Croat?” Sam said. “Or Scavenger?”

In the early days of the Croatoan virus, the infected had retained a lot of their human capabilities, but as the disease mutated, the infected became more animalistic. It was still possible to come across a croat who could manage to shoot a gun, but it certainly wasn’t commonplace.  

“Croat,” Jo confirmed with an eye roll when an infected man tripped and fell in front of the woman and she began to beat him over the head with the gun, spittle frothing from her manically grinning lips.

Jo and Sam both had their windows down now and were firing steadily at the encroaching horde, chest shots, because they weren’t steady enough for head shots, but those worked just fine on croats. It’s not like they were—

“We got zombies!” Ellen called from the roof. “Coming in at ten o’clock. Maybe a dozen of ‘em.”

Dammit. Zombies and croats were a bad mix. Zombies were dead, they couldn’t catch anything, but croats could be zombified and that was a bad time all ‘round. Zombies and croats, collectively, were freaks. Zombified croats were super freaks, because they were super-fast and super aggressive.

The Jeep’s trio of shooters focused on head-shotting the zombies and Bobby waited until the freaks were almost on top of the car and then punched a cassette into the Jeep’s tape deck.

The _Hallelujah Chorus_ blasted from the mega speaker on top of the Jeep’s roof, at decibels loud enough to be felt throughout the already-shaking Jeep. All around them, croats fell to the ground, clutching at their heads and the zombies turned as one toward the source of the sound, pausing in their shuffling for just long enough that Ellen, Sam and Jo were able to pick them all off in a barrage of gun fire.

“Hallelujah,” Bobby said dryly, sweaty hands straightening the vehicle as they ran over several prostrate croats.

They turned the music down once they were well clear, because while _The Hallelujah Chorus_ knocked the demonically infected off their feet and made their brains bleed out through their ears, it did attract the attention of the zombies.  And Scavengers. And any Preachers who might be lurking about, although it would be highly unusual to see a Collar this far out.

They made the San Albino Church of Mesilla just before dusk, with a gaggle of freaks at their heels.

Sam watched with a grin as the freaks slammed into an invisible wall the moment the car entered the Church car park, and he thanked whichever thoughtful Priest had been thorough enough to consecrate, not just the Church, but all of the grounds too, car park included.

The Church itself was beautiful. It was built of fired brick and had a belfry facade on each corner. There were leaded stained glass windows depicting saints and geometric designs lining the walls of the nave.

“Wow!” Sam said when they entered through the unlocked front door.

“Pretty ain’t it?” Ellen whispered.

Sam nodded. “But that’s not what I meant. It feels,” he tilted his head, “I dunno. It just…it _buzzes_. I can _feel_ the devotion. Do you think it’s still in use?”

Bobby harrumphed and tugged at his trucker’s cap. “Let’s take a look at that font. If it’s got some decent holy water in it then, yeah, I’m guessing there’s still someone using it sometimes.”

“Preachers?’ Ellen’s face was pinched and Sam put a soothing hand to the back of her neck.

It had been ten years since her partner Bill was killed by the Preachers, executed for practising the Black Arts when he’d beaten them to an exorcism job in a small village on the edge of the Badlands.   Bobby and Ellen had been with him and they’d barely escaped; only leaving when Bill, already too injured to fight or run, begged them to go, for Jo’s sake, so that she wouldn’t be left an orphan.

“Doubt it,” Sam told Ellen. “Not this far out. They rarely stray much further west than Kansas. And there are only a handful of them there.”    

“There are some in Washington and Montana too,” Jo reminded him.

“ _They_ ain’t gonna come here, are they?” Bobby said scathingly. “They’d have to cross even more of the Badlands than the ones coming from out East. And you know how scared them Preachers are of the Badlands.”

Jo sniggered. “Scaredy-collars!”

“Maybe there’s still some decent _Gazhe_ folk hereabouts,’ Ellen suggested. “Community minded.”

Bobby lifted the cover on the baptismal font and found it empty. “Guess not. Guess the _Gazhe_ that prayed here back in the day were just real devout. Proper good-hearted folk who kept things nice.”

While Bobby and Ellen perused the altar and the office area, Sam and Jo went and explored the Gift Shop, which had a wide selection of crosses, crucifixes and rosaries, religious statues and figurines, some religious paintings (mostly of The Last Supper or Mary holding Baby Jesus) and a section with Christening gowns, bonnets and booties, which Jo cooed over, a lot. They helped themselves to some rosaries and crosses and then Sam decided to take advantage of the spiritual atmosphere in the Church, and the very nice font, to make his own Holy Water. It wouldn’t be quite as powerful as the real thing, made by a properly ordained minister, but Sam was a genuine believer and had studied Christian theology extensively, and the Holy Water he made for the Clan was generally considered to be pretty good.

While he did that, Ellen set up their bed rolls out the back, in a small room that looked like it might have been used for religious education classes, and Bobby went outside and set up a campfire which he used to make a bean and barley stew with some of the dried provisions they’d brought with them from home. The stew was tasty and nutritious and better with bread, but they’d run out of that days ago. Still, barring disaster, they would have enough food to get them home without having to go hungry and, even better, Bobby had found a crate of communion wine when he and Ellen were checking the place out earlier and he opened a bottle to go with their supper. Sam couldn’t honestly say that he was a fan of the soft, sweet red wine, but Ellen and Jo both seemed to like it a lot.   

They left early the next morning, once again blasting the _Hallelujah Chorus_ from the speakers to clear the croats who were milling around at the edge of the consecrated ground.

They had a good run out of Las Cruces and headed north/west across New Mexico, toward Dinétah, Arizona.  They lost nearly two hours fighting off a band of Scavengers who ambushed them just outside of a town that used to be called _Truth or Consequences_ if the battered, bullet riddled sign were to be believed, and they were chased through _Quemado_ by a small pack of hellhounds, who, thankfully, were content to merely see them out of their territory.

The hellhounds had no sooner called off their pursuit than Sam noticed Bobby giving the rear vision mirror anxious glances.

“What?” he asked softly. “Are some of the hellhounds following us again?”

Bobby shook his head. “Not liking the look of that dark cloud,” he murmured. “Does that look natural to you?”

Sam twisted in his seat and took a good long look at the thick black whirling dervish. It was traveling fast…and heading straight for them. Sam tentatively reached out with his senses and got a very definite vibe that there was a creature close by that considered them its prey.

“Not sure what it is,” he said to Bobby, “but I’m pretty sure it’s after us. Better step on it.”

“Yeah.”

Bobby pumped the gas and the Jeep lurched ahead, losing traction briefly and skidding on the sandy road before Bobby spun the wheel and eased off the accelerator a fraction and got them righted. They were travelling much faster now and the whole truck was shaking. Sam hoped it would be enough. 

“It’s gaining!” shouted Ellen, who’d turned around in the roof hatch so that she was now facing the rear, with her AR-15 trained on whatever was pursuing them.

“Can you make out what it is?” Bobby asked.

Ellen lifted the binoculars from around her neck and stared into the black cloud.

“Some kind of biped, I think, but it’s got long arms and legs and seems to be running on all fours. Black. Hairy. Wendigo, maybe?”

Sam reached out again and this time he let the creature brush against his mind. He had pretty good blocks in place, but touching an unknown supernatural creature’s mind psychically was always a risk. Missouri was going slap him upside the head for sure when she saw him next.

The foulness that touched Sam’s mind was something he’d felt only once before. Three years ago he’d been invited to go on a hunt with the Diné warriors whose lands the Hunters shared. As a Librarian, Sam didn’t go on many Hunts. He provided research for Hunts. And he assisted the other psychics to keep tabs on the Hunters and the Diné warriors who _were_ out on Hunts, to ensure they were safe and to send help if things seemed to be getting dicey. And he _did_ go on Foraging expeditions, which often led to having to fight both supernatural and human monsters. But bone fide Hunts were not part of his particular responsibilities.  So he’d been thrilled to be invited to go on one with the Diné Warriors.

At first, they didn’t tell him much about what was going on; apparently it was Diné business and he soon learned that they really only wanted him for his psychic abilities, his ability to sense _biníłchʼi_ (the life force or soul of a living entity).  He got the full story about their mission bit-by-bit, on the journey across the Badlands.

Apparently, a powerful medicine man from a Diné clan up in the Utah Mountains had gone darkside, killing several family members in a ritual to obtain great power. That power gave him the abilities of a _yee naa ldooshii—_ a skinwalker—and although the Clan had been able to put warding in place to keep him out of Dinétah, he hadn’t gone far and was terrorizing a nearby _Bilagáana_ settlement. In theory, the small group of survivors living in the barely-a-village were under the protection of the Angels and the Preachers, but in practice, the Preachers seldom ever ventured out into the Badlands and the Angels rarely left their East Coast Citadel.  The Diné took the view that the _yee naa ldooshii_ was their responsibility and so they called on all of their warriors to come and help deal with him. The Clans had many of their own psychics, but for reasons that Sam has never fully understood, the elders asked for _his_ assistance in psychically tracking the _yee naa ldooshii_ and the cold, calculating evil of its mind was something he would never forget.

“Bobby,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I think it’s a skinwalker.”

Bobby swore under his breath. He’s seen the damage the Diné warriors had suffered at the hands of the last skinwalker they’d fought and killed. “You sure, kid?”

Sam gave a half shrug. “Pretty sure. Feels more like that than a wendigo any way. They feel…less human. More instinct driven.”

“Anything you can do—psychically—to ward it off?”

Sam shook his head. “It’d take too long. But Dinétah is heavily warded and I know that all of the other First Nations clans around here took our advice and warded their own lands too, so I think we should be safe enough if we can outrun it.”

Bobby nodded and hit the gas hard yet again. For a moment, the Jeep’s tires spun helplessly in the sand, but then they bit into asphalt once more and the Jeep wobbled once, twice, and then sped ahead, the shaking making Sam’s teeth chatter together.

He was reaching forward now, feeling for wards, and he nearly leapt out of his boots when Ellen fired her rifle. A snarl followed by a whimper, told Sam the skinwalker was right on top of them and when Ellen fired again Sam took hold of his Bullman necklace and began to pray – to any God that may be listening.

Power shimmered at the edge of his consciousness as Sam’s mind _felt_ the Zuni warding and he shouted, “Left, left! Now!”

Bobby spun the wheel fast and Ellen cursed and staggered in the roof hatch as the Jeep tipped up on two wheels.

“It’s right behind us!” Jo screamed, and Bobby pressed the accelerator right to the floor, causing the Jeep to fishtail down the dirt road. With his psychic senses extended as far as they were, Sam felt it when they crossed into Zuni land—the power smacked him hard enough to give him a blinding headache—and the skinwalker’s frustrated howl didn’t help either. It screeched to a furious halt, unable to enter the protected lands and Sam massaged at his forehead and began to mentally prepare his report for the Council. 

“Better stop in and officially let the Zuni know they’ve got a skinwalker on their doorstep,” Ellen said.

Doing so delayed them by an hour and the sun was starting to sink toward the horizon by the time they crossed into Dinétah.  By the time they entered Tséyi the blood red moon had risen and Sam had never been so thankful to see the high cliff walls of home.  

As far as Sam was concerned, he lived in the best place in the world.

Back in the 1940s when War was poisoning the souls of men and lashing the globe with destruction; when Pestilence and Famine joined the devastation in his wake; when Death fell upon the peoples of the world in their tens of millions, the Hunter community decided they were tired of the _Gazhe_ ’s continual refusal to heed their warnings; warnings that these were early signs of Apocalypse; of The End of Days; of a new era; a new world which would have to be built from the ashes of the old one. The four Horsemen of the Christian Apocalypse had risen. The Badger had grown horns. The Universe was due to be simultaneously dissolved and regenerated.

Hunters, as a people, were syncretistic; religious scavengers, borrowing traditions, practices and beliefs from different religions, cultures and mythologies, all across the world. Monsters, after all, were born out of many different cultural mythologies. Hunters needed the right weapon; the right ritual to deal with them.

The signs of the coming End of Days were not just from Christian mythology, but from many and varied mythologies. It was time, Sam’s Great Grandfather had decided, to reach out to those who were also reading the signs; who knew what was coming. Saving people and hunting monsters was the unofficial creed of the Hunters, but now it was time for the Hunters to save themselves. Much of the Lore, all around the world, told that those who stuck to the old ways would be saved. Sam’s Great Grandfather Jebediah believed that the Hunters, once again, needed to become an insular community. To truly follow the old ways they would need to be nomadic, but in an age of growing instability a remote home base seemed a sensible compromise.

Jebediah received a lot of knock backs and ridicule and the whole process took more time than he’d hoped, but eventually the Diné living in Tséyi—Canyon de Chelle—responded in a cautiously positive way to Jebediah’s feelers.

Chief John Yazzie had also been reading the signs. He was intrigued by Jebediah’s letter and invited him to a sit down meeting.  Jebediah Campbell had impressed him. He’d been respectful of the Old Ways and was obviously a powerful man with a wealth of arcane knowledge. He said his piece, his manner of speech straight forward and honest, and then he asked permission to bring just over one hundred Hunters to live in the caves and cliff dwellings of Tséyi.

John Yazzie had listened in silence and he had pondered the man’s words carefully. Eventually he spoke, telling Jebediah of the nine Hopi signs of the End of Days and his belief that eight of these had already come to pass.

“Why do you speak of Hopi myths?” Jebediah had asked. “Surely the Navajo have their own beliefs?”

“We do,” Yazzie agreed. “But there are some common threads. For instance, neither we nor the Hopi believe that the end of the world is truly an end. There will be great destruction, yes, but those who understand the prophecies shall be safe. Those who stay and live in the places of our People will also be safe. And the End will breathe new life into the spirit of the People. All will melt into one,” he paused again. “I believe your People are meant to come to us. We will work together and learn together and, together, we will help the circle to become complete.”

Sam had heard the story of the Partnership many times and he truly believed that the Hunters, the Diné and the other First Nations peoples who were working together to heal the Earth and to breathe new life into the spirit of the People were on the right track. If time was a circle, then the end and the beginning were the same thing. The Angels, The Preachers and their Church of the End Times, though, insisted the Earth and its People would be completely destroyed, eventually.  The fact that Sam didn’t agree made him a heretic in what was left of the ‘civilized’ world.

Once the Hunters joined the Diné in Tséyi they began to restore the caves to their former glory as habitable cliff dwellings. Some of the more sacred areas were out of bounds to the Hunters and they respected that, setting up their own sacred areas. Still other areas were shared, such as the deep, dark cave where ground water flowed up into a natural reservoir from the depths below.

Sam loved the Water Cave. It was cool and calm and he liked to sit on the rocks beside the water and just think. As a kid, if nobody could find him, that’s where Sam usually was.  The Diné gave him the nickname _Tóbájíshchíní_ —Born for Water, which was the name of an important hero in Diné mythology. It always made Sam cringe to be equated with such a powerful figure, even jokingly.  

Now, as Bobby pulled the Jeep into the communal garage at the base of the cliff, Sam was hoping for some quiet time to sit by the water and reflect on the strange visions he’d had yesterday. That was unlikely though. Both Missouri and Pamela were waiting for him on the lower steps, their hands on their hips and worried expressions on their faces.

“Uh oh,” said Ellen. “Who did what?”

Sam shuffled awkwardly and cleared his throat. “I may have let my psychic barriers down a bit more than I should’ve, but, uh, I got a feeling this is about the visions I had yesterday.”

The other three in the Jeep all looked at him, alarmed.

“You never did say what you saw,” Ellen said, somewhat accusingly.

“Because it was weird. Let me talk it through with these guys,” Sam nodded at Missouri and Pamela, “and then maybe I can explain better.”

 

 

_Sam is in the passenger seat. Another man is driving. Sam studies him in profile and likes what he sees. Full, soft lips, big green eyes. He has short hair; as short as a Preacher’s. It suits him, Sam decides. The man turns to him and smiles and Sam’s stomach lurches. He’s never seen such a beautiful man before. The man speaks to him, but there’s no sound. Sam is Himself, yet Not-Himself. He’s Real-Sam and Vision-Sam. Vision-Sam laughs and replies to the other man. Real-Sam wishes he could figure out how to get sound. Everything dissolves._

_Sam is sitting on the hood of a big, black car. The other man is squatting on the ground. He takes a small bottle out of a cooler and hands it to Sam. He has a bottle of his own and they clink the bottles together and drink._

_Sam and the other man stagger toward the car, bloodied and hurt, but grinning. Victorious. Sam pushes the other man into the back seat and gets behind the wheel. The other man protests, but it’s half-hearted. There’s a lot of blood and his arm is sitting at a strange angle._

_Sam’s sitting at a kitchen table. He’s using a computer. There’s a tall blonde woman baking cookies. Vision-Sam suddenly startles and staggers to his feet. There are Demons in the kitchen. And then there are Angels. The girl baking cookies dies. Vision-Sam doesn’t survive either._

 

On and on, the visions rolled and Sam described them in detail to Pam. She had him hypnotised, replaying all of the micro-Visions he’d had yesterday in slow motion. None of them, in and of themselves, were particularly noteworthy. Until Sam noticed the pattern. Whenever he and the other man were working together and driving around in the big black car, the Apocalypse was averted. When they were apart; when they didn’t have the car; when one or both of them didn’t seem to exist at all – the World Ended.

Sam blinked and Pam was smiling down at him.

“Welcome back.”

Sam reached for the pitcher of water and poured himself a glass. He drank down half and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“So what do you think?” he asked Pam.

Pam raised an eyebrow. “I think you have a _massive_ crush on this guy from your vision. You gave me a lot of detail about him. His soft pink lips, his long, long eyelashes, his beautiful big green eyes.”

Her tone was lightly teasing, so Sam allowed himself to relax and grin.

“Just my luck he’ll turn out to be straight. Or married.”

Pam smirked and then her grin faded and her expression became serious. “Or you may never meet him. This was a weird-ass set of visions, Sam. Do you have any clue what to make of them?”

Sam chewed at his lip and then nodded. “I think…yeah…I have an idea. I think I have to find him. I think it’s the only way to stop the Apocalypse. When we’re together; when we’re driving around in that car together, Hunting; the Apocalypse always gets stopped in its tracks. When we’re not,” Sam shuddered. “Bad things happen.  Really bad.”

Pam stared at him, her eyes wide. “Wow,” she said. “That’s…pretty big, Sam. Stopping the Apocalypse? Are you sure you’re not just getting carried away here?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe. It’s just a gut feeling. But if nothing else, I think these visions are telling me that I have to find that man,” he frowned. “And that car.”

Pam pursed her lips and then nodded. “Okay. Then I guess we need to talk to the Council.”

 

 

Sam was lying on his cot, feet crossed at the ankles and his arms folded behind his head. He’d thought about finding Max Banes or Tahoma Chee for a little one-on-one stress relief, but he didn’t know when the Council would send for him and he didn’t want to be summoned at an inopportune moment.

What was taking them so long? It wasn’t as if he’d actually claimed to be able to stop the Apocalypse. He’d just said that in all the visions he’d had, the Apocalypse was averted if he and the hot guy were working together, driving around together in the big black car.

He really had been hot, that guy from the visions. Just thinking about the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled and the way his tongue would dart out to lick briefly at his lips made Sam feel horny. He could feel his dick trying to rise to the occasion and for just a moment he considered reaching down into his pants, just to relieve some of the pressure. Of course, if he did, that would probably be the moment that one of the Elders came to collect him for the Council meeting, so Sam kept his hands to himself.

He’d almost drifted off to sleep by the time Bobby pushed back the curtains into Sam’s sleeping quarters and cleared his throat.

Sam blinked and staggered to his feet. “What time is it?”

“A little after midnight.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “What took you guys so long?”

But Bobby didn’t answer, merely shook his head, the expression on his face shuttered.

Sam felt his stomach begin to churn. For some reason, his vision had really piqued the Council’s interest and if the serious look on Bobby’s face was any indication, he wasn’t going to like whatever they had to say.

So it was with a great deal of foreboding that Sam entered the Ceremonial Cave for the fourth time.

The moment he stepped inside, he was swamped by strong arms and blonde hair.

“Mom?” Sam hugged Mary Campbell just as hard as she was hugging him. “What are you doing here? I thought you and Dad were grazing the cattle over near Spider Rock?”

“We were,” his mom said, finally releasing her hold on him and stepping back. “The Council summoned us. That’s why everything took so long.”

Sam looked into his mom’s eyes and saw a truck load of guilt swimming in them.

“What’s going on, Mom,” he said softly, but Mary simply shook her head and looked away.

“Sam?” said Deanna Campbell, Sam’s grandmother, “come and sit down.”

Sam sat himself down in between his parents, and his dad gave him a warm, encouraging smile.

Okay, so Joe Yazzie was technically his step-dad, but he was the only father-figure Sam had ever known and to Sam the time Joe had spent teaching him to hunt game, to hunt monsters, to build a Hogan, the time he’d spent teaching Sam all the important Diné stories, mattered far more than some accident of biology.  

Sam knew the story, of course, of the time his grandparents had built a covered wagon, like the ones that Hunters had traditionally travelled in, borrowed one of the Diné’s horses and taken their skills on the road; saving people, hunting things. A sort of family business. Nineteen-year-old Mary had gone with them and they’d made some good contacts in various outlying _Gazhe_ towns and villages. They’d even met a travelling Preacher, who’d seemed okay at first. At some point in their travels, Mary had gotten pregnant and with the blessing of a child upon her, she’d decided to return to Tséyi, to have the child at home. When Sam was less than eighteen months old, his mom starting dating Joe and the three of them soon became a family. Sam would’ve liked a brother, but it wasn’t to be.

So Sam knew the story.

Except apparently he _hadn’t_ known the story. Not at all.

Sam listened, with a growing sense of bewilderment and horror as his mom, quietly, with a tremble in her voice, told him of meeting Preacher John Winchester. Of falling in love. Of marrying him and moving into a house in Kansas with him, very much against her parents’ wishes. Of the five years she spent living as a Preacher’s wife; living as a _Gazhe_. Of falling pregnant and having first one son, then another. She told the Council of her delight when Sam—her youngest—used his mind to move the mobile above his crib. Of John’s horror that he could do so. She told them of overhearing whispered conversations between John and his superiors about tainted blood and evil powers. Of a horrifying visit from the Angel Lord Zachariah—who reeked of power and corruption and who decreed Sam an abomination.  Who decreed that the six-month-old baby must be put to death.

Mary began to sob.

“I begged and begged,” she said. “And all the commotion woke Dean up. When he realized what was going on he plucked you out of my arms and he held you tightly and he said, ‘No’ over and over again.  He said. ‘Nobody hurts my baby brother. Nobody.’  And John was so upset at seeing Dean distressed that he told the Angel to leave. And Zachariah left. He glowered, but he left. But I knew he’d be back. That he’d come back secretly and kill you. So that night, I took you, baby, and I took John’s car, and I ran. Back to Dinétah. Back to Tséyi. I wanted to take Dean too, but I thought…I thought that maybe if I left John something…maybe if I left him his oldest son…his legacy…then he wouldn’t come after us. I’m so sorry, baby.”

Sam’s mind was buzzing with questions.  So many that he didn’t really know where to start. There was so much he wanted to know. So many details missing. But there was one thing running through his head like a mantra and in the end, it was what he focused on.

Sam raised his head and looked his mom in the eye. “I have a brother?” he said.  

Mary nodded her head. “An older brother, yes. Dean. And…” she hesitated. “I still have the car. Hidden away not far from here.  It’s a 1967 Chevy Impala. Black. I believe it’s the car you saw in your visions. And the man you saw in your visions, sitting beside you in a big black car? I believe it is your brother, Dean.”

Sam couldn’t help glancing at Pam. Her eyes were wide and shocked. She smiled wryly and Sam gave her a rueful grin. He’d thought, at worst, the hot guy he was crushing on would be straight or married. The possibility of them being related hadn’t even crossed his mind.


	3. Chapter Two

_“The First Angel sounded his trumpet, and there came hail and fire mixed with blood, and it was hurled down upon the earth. A third of the earth was burned up, a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up.  A third of all seas and rivers dried up or turned to blood and the Abyss opened and smoke rose from it like the smoke from a gigantic furnace. Out of the smoke came locusts which set upon the people, torturing them with agony like the sting of a scorpion. Plagues struck too, and those who sought Death did not find it. In this time, only the Chosen will thrive. They alone shall have their lands protected and be guided in the ways of Vanquishing evil.”_ **The** **_DC Bible, Revelation of The End Times, V. 8.1._ **

 

The cottage was clean and tidy. The floor was well-swept, the lace curtains painstakingly hand-sewn and the place smelled pleasantly of sage, lavender and beef stew. The cup of tea sitting on the roughly-hewn pine kitchen table was still steaming. Dean picked it up and sniffed at it cautiously: chamomile, lemon and ginger, with just a hint of honey, if his senses didn’t deceive him.

“Careful with that Witches brew, Winchester!” Gordon growled and Dean rolled his eyes.

“It’s just a simple tea.”

Gordon glowered. “There’s no such thing as ‘simple’ when it comes to Witches!”

Dean barely restrained another eye roll. “And how sure are we that this Accusation is genuine?”

“Oh we’re certain,” Kubrick said, coming back into the main part of the cottage from the second room, the bedroom. “She’s got a Pagan altar set up in there and I found this,” he hefted an old leather-bound book with a silver pentacle embossed on the front and waved it at Gordon and Dean, “in a trunk under her bed.”

“That all lends weight,” Dean said, “but it doesn’t prove that the Accusation is genuine.”

“That’s why Preacher Kubrick called on us to help him conduct an Inquisition,” Gordon said. “You of all people know why Evil must be routed out before it can take hold.”

Dean nodded, his eyes tightening. “Okay, well she can’t have got far. This tea’s still hot.”

Most of the time, Dean enjoyed his job as the Preacher of Lebanon. It was more than a job of course; being a Preacher was a calling and Dean came from a long line of Preachers. His father John was a Preacher, his grandfather Henry was a Preacher and his great-grandfather Edward had been one of the first Preachers anointed by Lord Metatron when he’d Revealed himself to the Men of Letters and proclaimed them the first of God’s Chosen. He’d then presented them with the DC Bible – God’s original, unabridged Words, not fudged and filtered to serve the political needs of the time, and properly translated for the modern era.

The Church of the End Times was considered a bit of a cult at first, but when the earthquakes, the tsunamis and the falling comets starting coming thick and fast, a lot of people starting screaming _End of Days._ And when toads and vipers started to rain from the skies and the Mississippi boiled for a month and then turned blood red, the government appointed Preacher Cuthbert Sinclair as a key presidential advisor. Cuthbert Sinclair had been Master of Spells for the Men of Letters and had the ear of Lord Metatron, and as civilization crumbled and declined in the face of the ever-increasing apocalyptic activity, slowly, the Church of The End Times gained more and more power and authority. When the gates of Hell opened and Lucifer was released, the government ceased to function completely and when the Angels descended to Earth and Revealed themselves to the world at large, they chose the Church of The End Times as their emissary, at Lord Metatron’s suggestion.

Dean had grown up as part of a powerful dynasty; being a Preacher and a Man of Letters was his legacy and he had been determined his whole life to follow in his father’s footsteps and to do him—and his forefathers—proud.

Still, tracking Witches wasn’t something that he particularly enjoyed. For a start, it often felt hypocritical. The Preachers read books, just as Witches did. The Preachers practiced spell work, just as Witches did. And, yes, he knew that Preachers read and did spell work for the greater good at the behest of the Angels, and okay, the Borrowers, those Witches who were getting their power from Demons, they needed to be stopped, even if they weren’t actively using their craft for evil, because…hello? Demon deals were never a good thing. But that still left the Natural Born Witches and they were beholden to no-one. They had their own power and Dean was aware that the Church hierarchy—and the Angels—found that threatening. Also? Sometimes the so-called Witches that he was called on to investigate were nothing of the sort. Sometimes they were just unpopular—the village outcast for one reason or another and the village wanted a legitimate reason to get rid of them.

To make matters even worse, lately Dean had begun to hear rumors of Inquisitions that sounded more like the work of Demons than of Preachers sanctioned by Angels. Those rumors were why he’d pushed hard to be the third Inquisitor in this witchhunt, rather than Creedy.

Preacher Creedy was the usual third in Inquisitions involving Preacher Walker and Preacher Kubrick and Dean had been hearing whispers that Inquisitions involving those three often descended into rape and torture sessions. He’d also heard that women with no magical abilities at all had been cast into the Badlands following confessions they’d made under that torture. Even more sickening were Dean’s suspicions that Lord Zachariah—Commander of the South-Central Territories Angel Garrison—knew what they were doing and was turning a blind eye. For Dean, this Inquisition was about making sure that the Accused, Witch or not, wasn’t mistreated, and it was about getting a feel for Kubrick and Walker’s methods and attitudes.

“Tracking spell?” said Kubrick, bringing Dean’s attention back to the matter at hand.

Dean shook his head. “She’ll have taken steps to obfuscate that. We’d be better to track her the old fashioned way.”

Gordon Walker disagreed, of course, so Dean left the two of them to conduct their spellwork and go on what he suspected would be a wild goose chase, while he searched the tracks and the undergrowth surrounding the cottage for signs of passage.

It took Dean a couple of hours, but eventually, by following footprints, trampled wild flowers and the bent branches of shrubs and bushes, he came to a small clearing that he could feel shimmering with magic.

Dean murmured a quiet incantation and then struck a match and threw it onto the ground. There was an immediate roaring _whoosh_ , a flash of light and then a small ragged campsite revealed itself.

“I’m impressed,” said a woman’s voice, in a deep Scottish brogue, “you’re good, Preacher. Are you sure you’re nae a Witch yourself?”

Dean watched as a tiny red haired woman stood up and shook out her skirts. She was an attractive woman with a narrow face, wide set eyes and a long hooked nose.

“Nah,” Dean shook his head. “I’m just a guy who knows a few tricks.”

The Witch snorted indelicately. “Oh please,” she said. “You reek of power.”

Dean frowned and watched the witch watching him; watched as her expression became gleeful.

“Oh laddie,” she said, grinning wickedly. “You have no idea, do you?”

Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and tried to puzzle out what the Witch meant by that. Sure, he was pretty adept at spellwork—even if he did sometimes stumble over the more complicated Latin or Enochian words—but he had interacted with Angels on more than one occasion and never had a single one of them accused him of being a Natural Born Witch. And surely, if he were a Witch, someone would’ve said something? Dean frowned again and tilted his head as he thought. Maybe there was a good reason why he’d always found the Churches position on Natural Born Witches distasteful. For a start calling a Natural born Witch _unnatural_ had always seemed a bit of a contradiction and more importantly, shouldn’t what you do be more important than what you are?

And speaking of _what you do_ , the Witch’s hand was creeping toward the flowing folds of her dress.  

“Don’t,” he said sharply, and the woman froze, her face a caricature of innocence.

Dean shook his head. “So far, you haven’t done anything unforgivable. And I only want to talk. I’m not planning on trying to bring you in.”

The Witch snorted again and looked down her nose at him with an expression that seemed to say _as if you even could._ But her hand remained still and she waited.

“Well?” she said.

Dean cleared his throat and took deep breath. “You are Rowena MacLeod, correct?”

The Witch lifted her chin. “I am.”

“And have you, Rowena MacLeod made a Devil’s bargain with a Demon in exchange for the power of witchcraft?”

Rowena’s hands flew to her hips and her lips curled. “I have done no such thing!” she said. “My power comes from within. Rowena MacLeod answers to no one!”

Dean nodded. “So you confess to being a Natural born Witch?”

Rowena folded her arms across her chest and glowered.

Dean waited and then sighed when he realized she wasn’t going to answer the question. Not that he could blame her.

“Okay,” he said. “Tell me what happened with Olivette Rothery. She says you used magic to fool the village into voting for your apple pies at the Village Fair, when hers had won every year for the last five years.”

Rowena sniffed. “I did nothing of the sort. She just couldn’t handle losing.”

“She also says you turned her into a hamster for ten minutes and then told her that next time you’d make it permanent, so she’d better start being nicer.”

Rowena’s eyes darted away and she bit at her bottom lip. “I admit nothing,” she muttered.

Dean looked at her steadily for a moment and when she met his eyes again he shook his head at her.

“Rowena, you can’t just go around turning people into hamsters, no matter how much they piss you off. That road leads to Accusations and Inquisitions, things that are best avoided.”

Rowena muttered something under her breath and stared at the ground.

“If this was an Inquisition, I’d argue that the Accusation couldn’t be substantiated and I’d push for Banishment rather than Execution. Seeing as how you’re already banishing yourself, I’d say we’re on the right track here. You’re free to leave, Rowena. Don’t come back. And no more turning people into hamsters or anything else, okay? Next time you might not get a Preacher as understanding as me. And Rowena? The rumors are true. We do use iron shackles and Witches traps and we do have Witch killing bullets.”

Dean didn’t think he imagined the fear in Rowena’s eyes. She inclined her head in deference and then looked up and met his eyes.

“Thank you, Preacher…?”

“Winchester. Dean Winchester.”

Dean thought her eyes widened just a little. Dean couldn’t imagine that she’d ever heard of him, but maybe she’d heard of his father; after all, John was a missionary; he did travel around a lot.

“If I may be so bold, Preacher Winchester,” Rowena said. “What is it that you’re wearing under your shirt? It feels like some sort of protective sigil, but I can’t quite place it.”

Dean put his hand up to his chest, covering the pendant that hung from a chain around his neck.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just something my mom gave me when I was a kid.”

Rowena arched one delicate eyebrow. “You’ve never asked her about it?”

Dean swallowed. “She died. A long time ago now.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Rowena said.

 And she looked it. Genuinely so.

She pursed her lips and for a moment, Dean was sure she was going to ask how his mom died, which he was absolutely not talking about with a stranger, and a Witch to boot.  But all she asked was permission to pack up and leave, which he granted

Dean walked slowly back to the village, where he met up with a frustrated Walker and Kubrick in the village inn.

“Nothing,” Walker grumbled. “Not a trace of her. Definitely witchcraft at work.”

Dean stretched his feet out in front of him. He leaned back in his chair, picked up his beer glass and took a long drink of the local brew. It wasn’t half bad.

“That’s a good result for the village,” he said to Gordon. “We’ll put some paperwork in place to say she was tried in absentia. We’ll say that her disappearance left magical traces and thereby circumstantially proved the Accusation and we’ll sentence her to Banishment. She’s banished herself anyway, so we’ll just make it official. Win/win. Right?”

Gordon and Kubrick glowered, but Dean knew that they couldn’t really argue with his logic.

“This should’ve been a hanging,” Kubrick muttered.

“Really?” Dean said. “For an unsubstantiated verbal threat?”

Gordon narrowed his eyes.  “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “You’re right, Winchester. This is punishment enough. She’d have to be a powerful Witch to make it through the Badlands. And what’s waiting for her on the other side? Scavengers. And Hunters. This was a death sentence; just a long drawn out one.”

Dean supressed a shudder at the mention of Hunters. His father had once thought that Hunters and Preachers could work together, despite the disapproval of the Angels.

As a Missionary, John Winchester had travelled the lands bestowing the sacraments and fighting evil wherever the winds took him. In his younger years, he’d met up with a family of Hunters on his travels and for a while, it had seemed that they could work together; fight evil together. Dean was a little hazy on the details, because his Dad wouldn’t talk about it unless he was really drunk—and when he was really drunk John Winchester didn’t make a lot of sense—but as best he could make out, when Dean was about four years old, the Hunters had betrayed his dad in some way and Dean’s mom and his baby brother had died.

Dean didn’t really remember his mom. He had a vague impression of blonde hair and a kind voice. He remembered her singing to him. He remembered a home and stability. But he also remembered his mom and dad fighting a lot; his mom’s restlessness and the faraway look she’d sometimes get in her eyes. Dean didn’t really remember the baby. Not even his name. Whenever he tried to dredge up an image of him, it seemed the pictures in his mind were nothing but mist and blurry fog. Dean figured he’d been too little and the baby too new for the memories to properly form, but he knew he’d been looking forward to him growing up a bit, so that Dean would have a little brother to play with.

After the baby and Dean’s mom died, Dad became angry and withdrawn and he went back on the road again as a Missionary. He took Dean with him and it was a lonely way to grow up. Dean made friends wherever he went, but he couldn’t keep them, because he and Dad were always on the move. In those days, Dean often daydreamed that the baby hadn’t died; that he’d had someone steadfast and constant by his side, someone to share the highs and lows of childhood with, as he was dragged along in his father’s wake.

As a Legacy, Dean followed in his father’s footsteps as a matter of course. He went to Seminary School as soon as he turned eighteen and he was ordained at twenty-one. His father was disappointed when Dean took a posting as the Preacher of Lebanon instead of joining him out on the road as a Missionary, but Dean wanted a home. He wanted to make friends and get to keep them.

He still got to travel, though. Dean’s Parish was a big one and simply ministering to the needs of his flock meant being on the road for days at a time. He was also summoned on occasion—or volunteered—to take part in an Inquisition, but Dean’s favorite part of his job was when he got to go on Vanquishings. Dean truly enjoyed taking out a nest of vampires, sending Demons back to the Pit and dispatching ghouls, zombies, croats, hell hounds and various other infernal horrors spewed forth when the gates of Hell were thrown open.

Dean was an intelligent man and a scholar, but he sure liked getting his hands dirty once in a while.

 He sometimes wondered if that was due to the influence of having spent some of his early years consorting with Hunters; perhaps the bloodlust they were so infamous for had rubbed off on him. The Preachers—and the Men of Letters before them—preferred to slaughter from afar. To use clever weapons that maximized carnage for a minimum of effort on their part. They preferred to kill vampires by remotely detonating an AVD, for example, rather than by personally decapitating them.

Dean may have quietly admired the down-to-earth pragmatism of the Hunters, but he never allowed himself to forget that they were Heretics and when push came to shove, they weren’t much different to the Supernatural creatures they Hunted, what with their unsanctioned use of magic and their eerie propensity for clairvoyance and other psychic abilities. Above all, Dean knew that Hunters weren’t to be trusted.

Dean was brought out of his musing by Gordon throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Me and Kubrick’ll get that paperwork done. Seems you’ve got yourself an admirer,” he nodded toward the other side of the bar where a thin-faced, bearded man with big brown eyes was watching Dean intently.   

He wasn’t exactly Dean’s type, but Dean had always had a thing for big soulful eyes, so he lifted his drink and inclined his head.

Gordon laughed and stood up. “I won’t tell Victor,” he said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Me and Vic are fuck buddies, not a married couple.”

The guy came across as soon as Gordon and Kubrick had gone.

“Hi,” he said, sticking out a hand. “I’m Aaron.”

Dean shook his hand and told Aaron his name. Aaron was a smart guy and interesting to talk to. They ended up moving to a table in the dining area of the Tavern and eating a meal together.

“So we started out having drinks in the bar, and then we moved on to dinner,” Aaron said with a smile as he finished off his slice of apple pie. “So does that make this our second date?”

Dean shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Well, Dean,” Aaron leaned forward conspiratorially. “I don’t put out ‘til the second date.”

Dean grinned. “Then this is definitely the second date.”

He took Aaron back to his room and a good time was most definitely had by all, but Dean didn’t ask Aaron to stay the night. He rarely stayed the night with anyone. Not even Victor.

 

 

Dean set out for Lebanon early the next morning. It was a six hour walk back to his Church, if his luck held and he didn’t encounter any trouble along the way. He hoped with all this heart that he didn’t encounter anything, because the Gibbous moon was waxing toward full and the full moon brought with it agony that Dean liked to forget about the rest of the month.

Dean walked the countryside between Burr Oak and Lebanon at an even pace, with his pack on his back and his staff giving him support. As the day progressed, his left thigh, from just below his hip to just above his knee began to ache, courtesy of the time, three years ago now, when he got himself severely mauled by an alpha werewolf. His partner on the Vanquishing, Cole Trenton, had cauterised the wound with silver, so there was no chance that Dean would ever turn, but the three nights of and around the full moon were excruciating (and the days were pretty painful too) as the savaged skin tried to turn wolf but was blocked from doing so by the silver.

As the day lengthened the pain became worse and eventually Dean was panting with it. He stopped, took off his pack and set himself down on the ground with his back against a small boulder. He took his papers and his leaf-pouch out of his backpack and rolled himself a joint, before lighting up and breathing in a lungful of smoke. Marijuana laced with wolf’s bane was the only effective pain killer he’d found for the agony he jokingly referred to as ‘that time of the month’, and with the Apocalypse seeing to the demise of both the tobacco and pharmaceutical industries and the Angels having no interest in how humans self-medicated, there was no law against it any more.

Dean arrived home with enough time to buy some water at the market and to dig up some vegetables and get started on supper before the moon began to rise and the bad pain hit.

The agony this time was so sharp that Dean couldn’t help crying out. He lurched into the living room and collapsed into his arm chair. Jaw clenched and his face beaded with sweat, Dean kept his leg outstretched and reached a trembling hand for the Leaf Box on the table. He rolled himself a joint with shaking fingers and began to suck in the narcotic smoke as if it were oxygen. 

Time passed. Dean sweated and shook. Occasionally he slept. His dreams were fevered and featured, as his dreams so often did, a desperate search for something important. Something long lost. Something he _needed_ in order to be whole.

In the early hours of the morning he was awoken by the flutter of wings.

“Hello, Dean,” said a deep, gravelly voice.

Dean managed to gasp out _Cas_ as another wave of excruciating pain hit.

The Angel’s eyes narrowed slightly and he tilted his head. “Your prayers were very loud,” he said. “The pain seems very bad this month.”

“Harvest moon,” Dean panted. “Forgot…was…this month.”

It had been a rude shock in the first year after his injury to discover how much worse the pain was when the harvest moon rose. That first year, and last year, it rose in October, but this year it had risen in September.

Castiel leaned forward and placed two fingers on Dean’s forehead and the pain stopped, as if a tap had been turned off.

“I have blocked your pain receptors,” the Angel said.

Dean sat up straight in his arm chair. “Thank you Lord Castiel,” he said formally.

The Angel looked vaguely uncomfortable, which was quite impressive given that Angels weren’t really capable of human emotion.

Lord Castiel was a Garrison Liaison whose sub-district included Dean’s parish. He was young, for an Angel, and didn’t seem to have a stick shoved quite as far up his ass as most of the Angels Dean had met. They’d become…well Dean had thought they’d become friends, until the time—eighteen months ago now—that Dean had called him _Cas_ one time too many and found himself shoved up against a wall with the Angel’s forearm across his throat.

“I am an Angel of the Lord,” Castiel had hissed. “You should show me some respect.”

Ever since, Dean had made sure to call him by his proper name and title and every time the Angel looked slightly uncomfortable.

Good.

“I am sorry,” the Angel said suddenly, “that I cannot heal you.”

Dean snorted and spoke before he could stop himself. “Can’t or won’t?”

Castiel was silent for so long that Dean thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“I could heal the damage caused to you when your flesh was cauterised with silver,” he said eventually, “but then there would be nothing to stop you from completing the transition to werewolf. That is something I cannot ‘heal’, because it is a supernatural transformation of your very being. My powers do not allow me to interfere with that.”

Dean nodded once, sharply. It hurt to hear and he realized just how much he’d been hoping that maybe one day, the Angels would see fit to cure him of his monthly affliction.

“The best I can do,” Castiel added, “is to prevent your brain from receiving pain messages, which I don’t wish to do for too long as it is dangerous for you, not being able to perceive pain or bodily damage. Or I can send you into a deep sleep.”

Dean met Castiel’s eyes and saw the anguish in them. For an Angel, he was remarkably expressive. Maybe Dean had managed to be a bad influence on him after all.

“Thank you,” Dean said gruffly, “for doing what you can. I appreciate it.”

Castiel tilted his head and nodded, the expression in his eyes warming at Dean’s words.

“The Path is not always clear, but I feel compelled to provide you with whatever help I can.”

Dean frowned. The way Castiel had said ‘the Path’ made it sound like a _thing_.

“What path?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

Again, Dean endured a lengthy silence while the Angel ordered his thoughts.

“There are many possible futures,” he said finally. “Angels can see them all, but we do everything we can to see that this world progresses along the Chosen Path. There is also Free will, which can complicate the world’s adherence to the Path and there are Demons and other beings who would prefer a different Path and are actively working to achieve it. Sometimes the Path is brightly lit and other times it is…darker. There are…junctions, if you will, where the Future that has been Seen could change direction if…situations…are not carefully managed. Some among us see the Path more clearly than others.”

Dean licked at his lips. “Do you See the Path clearly, Lord Castiel?”

Castiel shook his head and then sighed. “At times I feel that I see the Path more clearly than anyone. But surely that must be hubris? Surely my older Brethren know what they are doing?”

Castiel pressed his lips together. “I’ve said too much. Would you like me to assist you to sleep? I would stay and watch over you, keep you safe.”

Dean told the Angel that he would like that very much.

For the next three days, Dean stoically endured the constant ache in his hip and thigh and went about his daily work as the Lebanon Parish Preacher. When the moon (and consequently Dean’s pain levels) rose, a flutter of wings brought Castiel to him. The Angel would block his ability to feel pain and then stay and talk, as if he were a friend, until late into the evening when he would put Dean into a deep sleep and then stay to watch over him.

Dean wasn’t going to lie – he found it a little creepy to think that the Angel was spending his nights standing over him, watching him until he woke up.  As far as Angels went, Castiel was all right, but despite the human vessel he wore, he was very clearly _not_ human. There was a sort of…alien…air about him that Dean could never quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was his unblinking stare (Dean’s eyes sometimes watered in sympathy) or his unnatural stillness (he didn’t need to breathe and often forgot to if he wasn’t taking in air for speech) or maybe it was the fact that he _was_ wearing a human being like some sort of meat suit, because Dean couldn’t help but find that horrific, despite Castiel’s protests that Jimmy was a devout man who’d given his consent to be used as a vessel.  Whatever the reason, Dean never could see Castiel as human, but he did have a grudging respect for the Angel, if for no other reason than he wasn’t as much of a dick as his Brethren.

During the few evenings they spent together, Castiel didn’t talk any more about Paths and possible futures, but he did allow Dean to teach him how to play poker and he also told Dean that it was okay if Dean called him Castiel, rather than Lord Castiel, but only in private. Apparently he’d gotten into trouble with his superiors for allowing his human charges—and Dean in particular—to be overly familiar with him.

“Seriously?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “Man, that _Lord_ Zachariah is a great big bag of dicks.”

Castiel tilted his head and looked utterly perplexed.

Dean waved him off. “Never mind. Makes me think, though…I’m gonna be pretty much okay after tonight so maybe you should steer clear of Lebanon for a while, except for your strictly official duties. Wouldn’t want the boss to think you were fraternizing with the lower classes and get you into trouble again.”

Castiel agreed and Dean had to admit that for the next couple of nights he actually missed the company of the feathered tree-topper, but then Victor got back from a Vanquishing and Dean was keen to catch up.

Dean himself was originally supposed to be part of the Vanquishing that Victor had just completed.  A hive of Hell Hornets had been terrorizing citizens near what had once been Cawker City and Dean had been looking forward to the challenge of exterminating them. But then he’d realized that the mission was likely to run into his time of the month and he was going to have to turn it down. Fortunately he’d been saved the humiliation of having to bow out due to his own weakness by word of an upcoming Inquisition in Burr Oak. Dean had been looking to get in on an Inquisition involving Gordon and his cronies for a while, just to see if the rumors about them were true, so he’d taken the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Now that Victor was back, Dean was keen to debrief and hear all the gory details.

“Holy shit,” he said, shovelling another mouthful of steak into his mouth. “So the flame flowers did nothing?”

“Oh they did something all right,” Victor wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “And could you maybe talk after you’ve finished chewing?”

Dean responded, very maturely, by opening his mouth and showing Vic all the masticated food in it.

Victor scowled at him and muttered something under his breath.

“But Victor,” Dean said sotto voce, once he’d swallowed, “I thought you liked it when my mouth was full of meat?”

Heat flared in Victor’s eyes, but he shook his head and sighed. “You are all class, Dean Winchester. All class.”

Dean smirked. “So tell me about the flame throwers. What happened?”

“They attacked is what happened. Turns out, Hell Hornets? Not affected by fire. It just pisses ‘em off. Thank God it was only a small hive and we only had to deal with twelve angry football sized hornets. Even so, I’d say we got lucky. It didn’t take long for Cole to figure out that Holy Water hurt them and enough of it killed ‘em. Next time we’re goin’ in packing super soakers filled with Holy Water.”

Dean laughed at the image. “Sounds like fun.”

“Oh believe me, Hell Hornets ain’t fun. We lost Ted, one sting and he was on the ground in agony,” Victor’s face contorted. “And that prick Lord Zachariah? He tried to refuse Ted a Healing. Said the Hornets were creatures of the Apocalypse, sent to teach humankind humility or some shit. He only backed down after Lord Naomi got involved.”

 Dean gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’ve never liked Naomi,” he said.

Victor frowned. “ _Lord_ Naomi,” he corrected.

Dean rolled his eyes. “I know Angels don’t have a gender, but Naomi’s in a female vessel so I have a real hard time calling her ‘Lord’.

“You know why they chose that honorific. It’s the honorific we gave to their Creator. And you know as well as I do that God doesn’t have a gender either, that it was only the hubris of the human male, choosing to personify God in our image, that led to all those male-gendered words being used in relation to the Creator.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean put his fork down and pushed his plate away. “Spare me the history lesson.  If Naomi was one of those them/they Angels, it wouldn’t seem so weird. But Naomi prefers she/her and she likes wearing dresses and skirts and make up.”

“So?” Victor raised an eyebrow.

“So I think of her as a woman.”

“Even though you don’t think of her as a human?”

Dean tilted his head. “Yeah. Huh.”

They dropped the subject and moved onto more pleasurable things, like peach cobbler and blow jobs. Later, when Dean was on his stomach with Victor’s cock buried deep in his ass, Victor leaned down and whispered in his ear.

“Does the fact that you like having someone inside you make you a woman?”

“Hell no,” Dean said, the final word turning into a moan, when Victor’s cock pressed against his prostate just right.

“Damn straight,” Victor said. “And wearing a dress wouldn’t make you one either. External trappings are irrelevant. It’s what’s in here,” Victor tapped Dean’s head, “that counts.”

“Rhonda Hurley,” Dean panted.

“Huh?”

“Made me try on her pink panties once. Satin. Felt awesome.”

Victor chuckled. “Did you fuck her with your panties pulled down under your balls, Dean?”

“Yeah. And then she fucked me with her strap-on.”

Dean groaned at the memory and came, and Victor followed him over the edge not long after.  

Victor didn’t ask to stay the night, not any more. Dean liked him and the sex was always good, but that’s all it was really; good sex. Victor was too rule-abiding for Dean; too willing to tow the party line. Dean was actually surprised he’d spoken out when Zachariah had refused to Heal Ted.

Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe that’d been Cole. Dean had worked with Cole a few times—not just on the ill-fated werewolf Vanquishing when Dean had been injured—and he’d always found him competent and decisive. He’d hooked up with him once too, but Cole was way too aggressive in the sack for Dean’s taste. Dean didn’t mind it rough, but he wasn’t into domination and control the way Cole was. The man _was_ a rebel though and he had a distinct lack of respect for Angels.  On reflection, he’d probably been the one who’d called in Naomi.

Once Victor had gone, Dean set to planning his next couple of days.

The Wallace’s wanted him to go out and bless their flock after their third goat-kid in a row had been born with two heads, each head with a mark like an inverted cross on the forehead. No doubt, this was some minor demon’s idea of an amusing prank and Dean would bless the flock, but he’d also need to hunt down the demon responsible and send it back to the Pit.

Dean sighed and wished, not for the first time, that the Angels hadn’t banned the Chosen from driving motor vehicles.  It hadn’t always been that way. In fact, the ban was recent—had occurred within Dean’s life time, even. Dean could still vaguely remember driving around in a big black car with him mom, his dad and the baby. Of course, then everything had gone to shit; mom and the baby had died, motor vehicles had been banned and the car had vanished. Still, Dean had fond memories of that car and he sure missed the convenience of motor vehicle transport.

The next day, Dean awoke well-rested and refreshed for the first time in days. The moon was no longer full. It was a waning gibbous now and its influence on his flesh had also well and truly waned.

Dressed in his Preacher’s garb, with his crooked walking stick in hand, Dean hiked for just over an hour until he got to the Wallace’s farm. He blessed their flock and took an early lunch with the family at Mrs Wallace’s insistence – fresh baked bread and a creamy, flavorsome goats’ cheese – and then he went in search of the demon; which, he discovered, was actually a Hobgoblin turned Boggart.

Dean found it hiding in the Wallace’s milking shed and spent the next four hours negotiating an apology from the Wallace’s, who, the Boggart (whose name was Bhrùnaidh) insisted, had severely slighted him with inferior offerings and a general lack of respect.

To tell the truth, Dean had been surprised that the Wallace’s even _had_ a Hobgoblin on the farm; most of the Fae fled back to their own Realm when the Mortal Realm went to hell-in-a-handbasket. The Wallace’s had also been surprised to learn that they had a Hobgoblin, which went a long way to explaining why their ‘offerings’ had been inferior. In any event, Dean was able to negotiate an apology and a truce and the Wallace’s children were delighted to learn that they shared their home with a real life-fairy. Dean neglected to mention that Bhrùnaidh was an ugly, hairy little thing who mostly went about naked.

The sun was still high in the wide open blue sky when Dean set out to walk home. He’d not long started when a sort of sonic boom noise had him anxiously checking his surrounds for some kind of Hell portal, but there was nothing in his immediate vicinity. Still, he kept his eyes keenly peeled, because he’d long since learned that that kind of a noise usually came with some sort of rift in time and space; the fae perhaps, or demons, or possibly advanced witchcraft.

The longer Dean walked, the more his bad leg started to ache. This wasn’t—thank the good Lord—the all-encompassing agony of Full Moon pain. No, this was just a regular old ache that any type of savage injury to flesh and bone can cause in its wake, especially after a day spent walking and squatting more than he usually did. Dean leaned a little more than usual on his crook as he walked and hoped he was lucky enough not to come across whatever it was that had made the sonic boom.

He was just a little less than half way home when the sound of shuffling and moaning reached his ears.

Dean stopped and cocked his head and then sighed. Zombies.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

Zombies didn’t stray into civilization very often. Mostly because of the road blocks and well-flagged mine fields, but also because the Preachers and the Angels patrolled their lands and kept it clear of the infected and the zombies. A few did manage to stray in on occasion. Usually because something had attracted them.  Like, say, the loud booming noise of a portal opening.

Dean sighed again and put his walking stick back into one of two scabbards that hung across his back, before drawing his katana from the other scabbard.  He had a revolver in a thigh holster, but he didn’t want to create more loud noises that could potentially attract the attention of even more zombies.

The Lebanon area had been mostly cleared farmland, and therefore fairly devoid of trees, even before the Apocalypse. After the Hail of Fire and the Burning Times there were even fewer trees, but there was still the occasional small copse of Cottonwoods dotted here and there.

The zombies, it seemed, had blundered into one such copse and were slowly making their way around all the obstacles with great difficulty.  Dean crept forward, sword at the ready. He couldn’t help grinning when he saw the first zombie, a middle-aged woman wearing a ragged Sunday-best blue dress and one blue pump with a broken heel. She was shuffling uselessly at the base of a tree and it was child’s play to lop off her head.  Dean worked his way through the rest of the zombies and it really wasn’t a challenge. Zombies were just walking sacks of meat looking to feed. They were attuned to sound and movement, but they were quite literally brain dead. They couldn’t plan or strategize; couldn’t anticipate Dean’s moves; couldn’t formulate a defence. They could (and did) try to eat him when he came close, but they didn’t get a chance to do more than open their putrid maws and drool before Dean was separating head from body with his trusty katana.

Once the seven zombies were all nicely dispatched, Dean dragged them into the open, piled them up, said the requisite prayers over them and respectfully cremated them. After all, they had once been the vessel of a human soul. Death had long-since taken the souls, but The Church still felt it was important to put the reanimated corpses to rest.

By the time he was finished, Dean’s leg was aching something fierce and he toyed with the idea of lighting one of the pre-rolled joints he’d brought with him, just in case. In the end though, he really wanted to get home, so he settled for taking a couple of quick swigs from his silver hip flask filled with whiskey, and then he took out his walking stick and set his feet on the path to home. 

Dean’s Church was built in the middle of a fairly open plain so he was still a good way away when he realized that he was about to have yet another problem.

The gravel road leading up the Church was edged with fire and sitting in the center of the road was the very same black car (or else its twin) that he’d been reminiscing about only last night. Dean remembered the sonic boom he’d heard earlier and his heart plummeted. He had a nasty suspicion that the flames licking the edge of the road had been caused by a portal opening; but a portal from where? Not Heaven or Hell. Angels and Demons didn’t bring cars. Perhaps it had been opened on another Earth in another one of the multiverses? Or maybe just from somewhere else on this Earth.

Even more worrying to Dean, though, was the man who was perched on the hood of the car—quite a big man too, although it was hard to gauge his size accurately when he was sitting down. He was dressed in denim jeans and a white button down shirt and his hair came down to his shoulders, marking him an Outsider and in all probability a Heretic. In the Civilized world it wasn’t acceptable for a man to wear his hair so long.

Dean swallowed. And then he squared his shoulders and began to walk slowly but surely toward the—man. He wasn’t even sure if he was human. He could be a demon. Or maybe a Witch. 

More likely, given the hair, he was Navajo or Hopi. Or maybe even a Hunter.

Dean swallowed again and suppressed a shudder. He was patently _something_ and Dean knew (with a certainty that he didn’t care to examine too closely) that the man brought change with him; change that would turn Dean’s entire world upside down.


	4. Chapter Three

_The Hopi have a legend about two brothers. One of these brothers, the eldest, was sent into the East to live among those who were not of The People. The other was instructed to make his home amongst The People, but to travel all over the land, leaving his footprints everywhere and routing out evil wherever it flourished. The older brother who went East promised that one day he would return. He took a piece of The Fire Tablet with him and said he would bring it back when he came home, so that his People would recognize him. It is prophesied that he will come back and help his People in the End Days, when all appears hopeless. His coming will unite all the peoples and all of the cultures of the world and usher in a New Era. **The Tale of Pahana, The Lost Older White brother, Oral Hopi History, recorded by Librarian Bobby Singer, 2031**_

 

Only Sam, his parents and Missouri remained in the Ceremonial Cave. They were seated cross-legged, on the woven red floor mat, in a semi-circle, and they were passing a pipe between them as they talked.

Sam stared at his step-father, speechless. “You think my…my _brother_ is part of a major Hopi legend?”

Joe shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You know how prophesies work, Sam,” his mom added. “It’s not an exact science. _We know in part, and we prophesy in part_. The words of a prophet tell us what needs to happen, but they’re open to interpretation. Is your brother part of a prophecy? Who knows? Could he _become_ part of a prophecy in the Here and Now? That’s a better question.”

Hunters, with their deep knowledge of the mythologies of many cultures, weren’t above taking advantage of legend or prophecy when it suited their purposes. They took the view that if the gods needed a thing to happen, then they weren’t going to be too proscriptive about the exact form that the prophecy fulfilment took.  

Joe nodded, slowly and thoughtfully, sucking at the pipe and then breathing out a series of smoke rings before passing the pipe to Mary.

“As a  boy, I heard many tales of prophecies fulfilled and I often wondered, was The One always destined to be The One or did they merely _become_ The One because they were in the right place at the right time? The Diné mostly believe the former. The Hunters mostly believe the latter. Our joint community has a diversity of strong opinions on the subject,” he glanced across at Missouri and they exchanged a smile. “Ultimately,” he said, “I’m not so sure that it really matters. If you put yourself in the path of prophecy, if you elect to take on its mantle, then perhaps you were always destined to do so? Who can truly say? They ways of the gods are often mysterious.”

“So the fact that it’s a Hopi prophecy doesn’t matter?” Sam said.  “To the Diné, I mean.”

Joe shook his head. “There are many similarities in our myths and legends. Differences too, but ultimately we share the same basic belief that when this world ends a new, more harmonious world will begin. Your mother believes that the man you saw beside you in the car in your visions is your brother, Dean.  Your visions tell you that you need to find this man; that doing so could avert the apocalypse. There is clearly _something_ prophetic going on here,” Joe looked across at Missouri again. “Your brother may not be the _pahana_ of Hopi legend …but the timing…it sure would be good.”

Sam looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“The pahana will return to his people when all appears hopeless,” Joe reiterated.

Sam frowned.

“You should be able to feel it,” Missouri chided softly. “Reach out. Touch the Web.”

Sam closed his eyes and reached out widely with his senses.

When Missouri and Pamela first began training him to use his psychic abilities, they’d encouraged him to visualise the psychic energies that were woven in between all things, and which connected everything, as a web. Usually, when Sam used his senses, he focused specifically on a small part of the Web. Now, he was trying to be aware of it in its entirety – an exercise that always made him feel small and insignificant – and it took him a moment to realize what Missouri was talking about. Right now, the web was shaking; a constant thrumming vibration.

Sam gasped. “Why?” he said. “What’s causing that?”

“Powerful energy fluctuations,” Missouri said. “Our best guess? Michael and Lucifer are powering up again; getting ready for another showdown.”

“May the gods preserve us,” Sam murmured.

When Michael and Lucifer met on the battlefield in their True Forms, only weeks after the Angels revealed themselves, they wiped Europe off the global map, destroyed a lot of Asia, caused severe damage right across Africa, and pockets of destruction throughout The Americas.  Since then, the Angels had taken vessels and built themselves a citadel in Maine, carved up what was left of the world into territories and managed it, mostly from a distance, using the Preachers as their lackeys.

Michael and Lucifer had both retreated to their strongholds to recharge. Sam liked to imagine them as waves of celestial light plugged into a giant celestial power grid.

“Your brother’s circumstances; your visions,” Mary reached out and put a hand on Sam’s arm. “They were enough to convince the elders that we could be coming into the time spoken of in the Hopi legends.”

“And if nothing else,” Sam’s step-father added dryly. “Your quest to find your brother and bring him home will give The People hope. And sometimes, hope is more important than anything.”

 

 

Mary had stored the car in a cave on the farthest edge of their territory and Sam had to admit, she was a thing of beauty. His mom had carved protective sigils and clan symbols into the interior of the car; in the lid of the trunk, above the places where someone might sit; on the column of the steering wheel.

Bobby Singer poured the gasoline they’d brought with them into the gas tank and Sam slid behind the wheel. The car rumbled to life, the engine purring like a lioness.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, grinning, as his mom got into the passenger seat beside him.

Mary’s answering smile was sad.

“John doted on this car,” she sighed. “I want you to know, Sam, he wasn’t a bad man. He was misguided in his beliefs, but he honestly thought he was doing the right thing.”

“Tell me about him,” Sam said, as he pulled the car out of the cave and followed Bobby’s Jeep back toward home. “How did you meet?”

Mary’s smile brightened a little. “We rescued him from a Vetala. He’d taken down one, but hadn’t realized that they usually hunt in pairs. The one he’d killed had a mate, and she took him prisoner. She’d fed off him three times by the time we got to him. Long story, short, he stayed with us at our camp while we nursed him back to health. Of course, then we learned that he was a Preacher and your grandpa was all for sticking the silver knife into his heart and pretending the Vetalas had got him.”

Sam laughed out loud at that and when his Mom met his eyes, hers were full of mirth.

“I know, right? Typical Grandpa Samuel. But John…he was actually really sweet. I think, now, that he thought he was rescuing me. I don’t think he fully realized that being a Hunter…it’s something you _are_ , not something you _do_. When I got pregnant,” his mom paused. “He’d been a Missionary; the type of Preacher who travels from place to place, ministering to the smaller villages and communities in the farthest places. That’s why he was right on the border of the Badlands when we found him,” she paused again and Sam took a long look at the mournful, faraway expression on her face. “Anyway, when I got pregnant, he took me to Lawrence, Kansas, and we got married; got a house; settled down. I had Dean and John wouldn’t let me do any of the ceremonies. Your brother…he never had his _Ainmniú_ Ceremony. He never had his _Deasghnátha._ Never undertook his First Rites. The best I could do was to give him our Clan mark on a pendant. I hope he still has it.”

Sam processed that for a moment; the fact that he had a brother, who most likely had no knowledge or understanding of his culture. It was a disconcerting thought. They would be so different. They would barely be brothers.

“So,” Sam cleared his throat. “Kansas, hey? Do you think Dean’s still there?”

Mary shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”

Sam thought back to the day he’d had the visions of himself and the hot man with the green eyes. When his mom had told him she believed that man was his brother he’d felt the rightness of it. And truthfully, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. After all, the man in his visions was sex on legs and Sam had been fantasizing about doing things with him that a man didn’t _usually_ do with his brother.

Sexual relationships between siblings weren’t _common_ , but they weren’t unheard of within the Hunter community either. Hunter communities were traditionally small, insular and nomadic and accordingly, they were _practical_ about the pleasures of the flesh. There _were_ taboos around incest—if there was a power imbalance, if there was a lack of informed consent, if siblings tried to have children—there just wasn’t a blanket taboo around it, like there was among the _gazhe_.

He and…Dean… were complete strangers; brought up differently, by different people, as part of different cultures. They only thing they had in common was genetics; an accident of birth. Sam and Dean would meet as adults. Maybe it was too late for them to form a brotherly bond, but perhaps they would be similar enough to form a friendship.  

Sam licked at his lips and tilted his head as a thought occurred to him. The same day that he’d had the visions, when he’d scried for Sanctuary, his pendant had jerked away from the small local map and Ellen had said that if it’d been a bigger map, it would’ve been pointing to somewhere in Kansas.

“Mom,” he said slowly, “I think I might know a way we can find out where Dean is.”

 

 

Without fail, every time Sam asked the question, _where will I find my brother, Dean Winchester_ , his bullman pendant swung over the North West corner of Lebanon, Kansas.

Grandpa Samuel nodded his head after the seventh straight scry gave the same answer.

“Okay,” he said. He rubbed his hands together. “We—the Elders—all feel that time is of the essence here. We have a spell that will allow us to open a portal. We believe it’s best that we send Sam and the car directly to Dean, via a portal, and then, Sam and Dean can drive around in the car,” Grandpa Samuel waved a hand, “and whatever it is that’s meant to stop the apocalypse as a result of that, can happen.”

Sam felt his face heat up. “Yeah, about that,” he said. “Anyone have any clue what we’re supposed to actually be doing? My visions just showed us together, in the car. I have no idea how we’re actually supposed to stop the apocalypse.”

“Maybe Dean will know?” Joe suggested.

“Maybe you’re just supposed to go to him and wait for a sign?” Mary offered.

“I know it’s thin,” Missouri added.

Sam barked out a laugh. “Thin? If this was any thinner I’d be able to slip it under Dean’s door! He’s going to think I’m insane.”

“He might,” Mary said, her eyes taking on a faraway expression that was starting to become familiar, “but he was a curious little boy, always into everything and wanting to know what was going on.  And he was…” Mary tilted her head, “ _sensitive_. To the needs of others. But also to energies. He may well have the abilities of a Seer, but of course, the idea of a regular person with those kinds of abilities was anathema to the Preachers. Dangerously so.  And I didn’t have anyone to help guide him, so any abilities he does have, they’ll be…raw. And given his environment, there’s every chance that he squashed anything that made him seem…different,” Mary paused and looked at Sam. “But my point is, even if he thinks you just turning up out of the blue is weird, I bet he’ll also be intrigued. I don’t think he’ll turn you away.”

“So it’s set,” Grandpa Samuel said. “Sam, get yourself organized. We’ll open the portal tomorrow morning. You find your brother, you fulfil your destiny, and then you bring him home.”

 

 

Bobby Singer helped Sam make a hidden weapon’s cache in the trunk of the car; somewhere to hide his magic supplies and the more arcane of the weapons—the things that may see him charged with Heresy or Witchcraft if a Preacher found them.   

“Sam,” Bobby said, twisting his hands in the rag he’d used to wipe them. “The pendant I gave you for your _Deasghnátha_ , it was given to me by a Nomad Seer who stayed with us before you were born. She told me it was destined to belong to Mary Campbell’s oldest son. Up until two days ago, I thought that was you.”

Sam clutched at the pendant that hung around his neck. “What are you saying, Bobby? Do you want me to give this to Dean?”

Bobby shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “I ain’t saying what you should do with it. I’m just telling you what the Seer said. She said it should go to Mary Campbell’s eldest.”

“Okay,” Sam scratched at his forehead. “Thanks for telling me. I guess I’d better go finish packing.”

 

 

Despite the trunk full of weapons, Sam still took another two duffle bags worth of guns and knives. And one duffel bag filled with clothes.

“Well I see you’ve got your priorities set,” said Max Banes from his position lounging naked on Sam’s bunk.

“Shut up, Max,” Sam said fondly.

Max rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. “It’s just as well our relationship never leaves the bedroom,” he said, “because I really don’t think I could be seen out in public with so much plaid on my arm.”

Sam rolled his eyes. This was a conversation they’d had many times. “We live in caves, Max.”

“That’s no excuse for not looking our best,” Max gave the expected rejoinder.

“I blame myself,” Sam shook his head. “I should never have brought back all those fashion magazines for you. My plaid shirts are warm and comfortable. Besides, I don’t always wear them. I’m not wearing plaid now, am I?”

Max smiled softly and then rolled smoothly out of bed and up onto his feet. “Okay,” he said, looking around for his clothes and then beginning to pull them on. “It’s been fun, as always,” he waved his hands at Sam in a shooing gesture. “But you’ve got a destiny to get to. I ‘ll see myself out.”

Sam straightened and stared at his friend (with benefits). “Aren’t you coming to see me off?”

“Nah,” Max said as he shrugged into his sweater. “You know how I feel about good-byes.”

Sam frowned. “I’m coming back, Max.”

Max met Sam’s eyes and gave him a half smile. “I know,” he said.

And then he pushed back the privacy curtains and strode out of Sam’s sleeping quarters without so much as a backward glance.

Sam stood staring at the curtains in the wake of Max’s retreat. Max was half Hunter, half natural born Witch and he only joined the Clan a couple of years ago. He’d spent his childhood living Outside with his mother and twin sister, and they’d only ever seen their father, Asa, when he came to visit them.  When Asa was killed on a Hunt, Max decided he wanted to get to know his father’s people better and he’d turned up on the Clan’s door step. He’d only been with them for six months, when his sister Tasha joined them. She and their mom had been attacked by a borrower Witch who’d wanted to steal her mom’s powers. Their mom had fought the Witch and killed her, but had then died of her own injuries. Her dying words had been to tell Tasha to join her brother with the Campbell Clan. The Banes twins had soon become fully fledged members and the younger members of the Clan were delighted, not only because the twins were kind, capable and a lot of fun, but because new young blood was something they didn’t get very often and the problem with growing up in what was essentially a compound, was that the people in your age group often felt more like a sibling than a prospective mate.  The girls had been pretty upset when they’d learned that Max was gay. Sam had been delighted.

As a half-Witch, Max had his own set of powers and abilities and although he wasn’t a Seer per se, his behavior was causing Sam to wonder if he knew something or had _Seen_ something, or whether he was just going to miss Sam’s, eh, company while he was away.

The curtains shifted again and Sam’s mom stuck her head in. “Sam? It’s time.”

Sam followed his mom outside, to the area that had been set up for the creation of the portal. He accepted the backslaps and good wishes of his fellow Hunters with a smile and a nod of thanks and as he slid behind the impala’s steering wheel, he began to feel nervous. Arriving in Preacher country via a portal was a monumentally suicidal idea. What if he was arrested for witchcraft? What if he was executed? Sam’s breathing began to stutter and he was on the brink of climbing out of the car and calling the whole thing off when Missouri reached in through the open window and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Relax,” she said. “You found him when you scried for Sanctuary. You’ll be safe with Dean.”

“That’s just a theory,” Sam said, but he could feel himself relaxing anyway. “We don’t actually know that I’m going to find Dean. It could just be a really awesome Church with a super devout congregation.”

“You don’t believe that,” Missouri said.

No. He didn’t. Sam was on his way to meet his brother, Dean. Of that he was certain. But what kind of reception was he going to get? That, he wasn’t so certain about.

It was another half hour before Samuel and his team had everything set up to their liking. Missouri gave Sam a final, comforting squeeze on the shoulder and went to join the others for the incantation. Mary moved forward in her place, her expression nervous as she leaned into the car and kissed Sam’s cheek.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” she said. “Tell him…tell him I love him and I wanted to bring him too, but I needed to keep you safe.  Tell him,” he voice broke. “Just tell him I’m sorry,” she straightened up and stood back. “You be safe out there among the _Gazhe_ , baby. I love you.”

Sam watched as his mom returned to the sideline and was enveloped in Joe’s strong arms.

Joe nodded to him and then the chanting began and Sam swallowed hard and started the engine.

A crack like a spear of forked lightning appeared in the air in front of the car. Slowly, it began to widen and Sam watched in trepidation, worried that something may come out of the split in time/space that his Clan had created. Nothing did, though, and as soon as the portal was wide enough, Sam drove through it. Immediately he felt so cold that it hurt like burning and everything seemed to fall apart around him. For a brief moment Sam questioned his very existence and then he was through the portal and driving way too fast down a dusty lane toward a small stone Church.

Sam hit the brakes hard and the car fish-tailed and then spun, doing a one eighty turn so that Sam was now facing the way he’d come. The portal shimmered before him and then closed with a boom.

Sam turned off the engine and sat in the car with his head in his hands, shaking. Portal travel may be fast, but it was not fun. He ached all over and he felt strange – everything seemed surreal.

Sam sat, breathing and existing for a long stretch of time, and when he started to feel more concrete he figured that he’d better look up and make sure that he wasn’t surrounded by Preachers or pitchfork wielding townsfolk. A quick glance around him told him that he wasn’t. Also, that the road he’d exited the portal onto was lined by bright yellow fire.

“Shit,” he groaned. “Subtle.”

Luckily, the plain that the Church sat upon was nothing but barren dirt and Sam knew that with nothing to feed it, the magical flame would soon splutter out, so there was no need for Sam to undertake any fire-fighting; which was just as well given his general lack of equipment to do any such thing. 

The thing to do next would be to get out of the car and go in search of Dean. 

It took Sam far longer that it should’ve to get up the courage to leave the car.

The Church itself was unlocked, but empty. Sam walked slowly up the center aisle and soaked up the feeling of Sanctuary. It was reassuring that his brother’s Church (if indeed this was his brother’s Church) held such a sense of calmness, safety and serenity. Eventually, Sam turned his attention outward, assessing the Church with his eyes and ears instead of with his psychic senses. It was a simple building, white stone with a slate roof and plain glass windows. Sam had noted the bell tower as soon as he’d looked at the place, but hadn’t gone up into it yet. Nor had he yet explored the offices he knew were out beyond the altar. The Church’s nave was filled with pews made from recycled plastic (an unexpectedly valuable resource in a world that had lost a third of its forests and suffered severe erosion and further vegetation loss as a result) and the pews were well-stocked with small, leather-bound black Bibles. DC version, of course; all older versions were considered sacrilegious. Sam picked one up gently and inhaled the scent of leather and ink. The book in his hands smelled a lot newer than the ones back home. Of course, the ones back home were mostly much older texts; some were centuries old. Sam had read through quite a number of versions and translations and in all honesty, he did prefer the DC version; there were far fewer _abominations_ in it for a start and it was made pretty darn clear that all fully consensual sexual relationships were a-okay with the Lord Our God—it was rape and sexual exploitation that their deity had a problem with.

Sam put the Bible down and made his way up to the altar; a simple stone table with two white candles on it and a plain cross on the wall behind it. Off to the right was a door and Sam went through it into the vestry-cum-office. There was a desk cluttered with books and papers at the back. Sam went and sat on the leather chair, closed his eyes and placed his hands on the desk. He could feel the residue of a soul quite strongly in this spot and knew that someone spent a lot of time here. He hoped that someone was Dean, because he liked the feel of this soul; it was complex and multi-layered and it shone brightly. Sam could feel the soul’s righteousness and he definitely wanted to get to know its owner better.   

Sam opened his eyes and looked around briefly, before looking at the papers on the desk in front of him – a homily-in-progress written by one Preacher Dean Winchester—so this was his brother’s Church—and then he looked at the books sitting in haphazard piles on the desk. Sam recognized The Vedas, The Quran and The Tanach as well as several versions of The Bible (some of which were considered sacrilegious) along with some more general books about religion. He began to pick them up and flick open the covers. The first couple had _Ex Libris Dean Winchester_ written inside the front covers. The next few were the property of the Citadel and the final one that he opened— _In the Beginning:_ _Conversations with our Creator_ by Lord Metatron—had the name John Winchester written inside the front cover.

Sam swallowed at the sight of his father’s name. The man had been willing to hand over his own infant son for death…and maybe still wanted him dead for all Sam knew, but still, Sam couldn’t help being curious about him. What did he look like? Was Sam anything like him? Would they have gotten along if they’d just been a regular father and son? Sam pondered his father for a while and then resolutely put him from his mind, shutting _In the Beginning:_ _Conversations with our Creator_ and looking around him again, trying to decide what to do next.

In addition to the door that Sam had entered by, the vestry also had an external door. Sam went through it and discovered a small private residence just a short walk up the path behind the church.  And it really was small; no more than a couple of rooms. Sam peered in through the front window and saw a living/dining/kitchen area, dominated by what appeared to be a cast iron coal burning cabin stove, complete with warming areas above the cook top, and several areas for pots to simmer.

The door to the cabin was unlocked, but Sam could feel the shimmer and buzz of wards around the entry and while he suspected that the wards would only deter a truly supernatural entity, Preachers being what they were, he couldn’t be sure that the wards wouldn’t be fine-tuned enough to wallop a psychic. 

So Sam decided that the smartest thing to do would be to go and wait by the car. Situated as it was on the only road to the Church, when Dean returned, he’d be bound to see it. And if things went south, Sam figured he could flee more quickly and easily in a car than on foot.

When he got back to the Impala, Sam dithered for a moment. And then, because it was a nice sunny day—and because he wanted Dean to be able to see him clearly when he approached—he  took a bottle filled with Missouri’s iced tea out of the cooler on the back seat and went and sat on the hood of the car. And waited.

 

 

Dean ignored the flames licking at the edge of the road and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the figure sitting on the hood of the car. Damn that was a nice car. Dean had gotten himself in trouble on more than one occasion for reading old car magazines, which were strictly forbidden.

According to Law, he should arrest the stranger for having that car. But Dean already knew he wasn’t going to. It was kind of overwhelming how much he wanted to run his hands over the car’s sleek curves. He walked slowly and purposefully toward her and he made damn sure that he didn’t favor his left leg, despite how much it ached and throbbed. The guy sitting on the car watched him approach. He seemed relaxed, sipping occasionally from a green bottle, which he held loosely in one hand in between drinks.

Dean stopped when he was half a dozen steps away from the car. The guy sat up straighter, his expression wary but hopeful, and he met Dean’s eyes with curiosity, not challenge. 

“So,” Dean drawled, “I guess I have you to thank for setting my yard on fire.”

The guy’s eyes widened and then he looked down at the ground, shoulders hunched; a guilty expression if ever Dean had seen one.

Dean couldn’t help chuckling. “Wow. I bet you’re _really_ bad at poker,” he said.

The guy looked up, hopeful-but-wary restored. “Nope. I can hustle like a pro when I have to. But I’m sorry about the fire. It’ll burn itself out soon, but, yeah. Sorry.”

The guy had a nice voice, deep but not too deep and he was looking at Dean like he was the only thing in the world worth looking at. If they’d been in a tavern, Dean would’ve been pulling out all his best moves and hoping for a one night stand. As it was, Dean’s leg was really killing him, he was tired and unsettled and he didn’t know who this guy was, where he’d come from or what he wanted.

To Hell with it, Dean decided. He put his pack down and the guy tensed, not relaxing until Dean pulled out a joint and lit up, drawing in deeply.

The guy’s nostrils flared and he tilted his head, his brow furrowing a little. He watched as Dean took another drag and then spoke.

“I guess you’re probably wondering who I am, where I came from and why I’m here.”

Dean nodded and wondered, not at all idly, if the guy was a mind reader.

The guy stuck out his hand. “Sam Campbell.”

Dean flicked his eyes from Sam’s hand to his face and back again, before switching his cigarette to his left hand and reaching forward with his right to grip the proffered hand.

“Dean Winchester.”

Sam’s hands were big. His fingers were long.

“Awesome,” Sam said, smiling so hard that his cheeks dimpled.

Dean was still holding onto his hand and he had to force himself to let go.

“You’re the one I was trying to find,” Sam added.

Dean went still. “Why?”

Sam rubbed a hand across his chin. “Uh, there was a, um, prophecy. And there were, uh, visions. Maybe we should talk inside?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the church.

Dean nodded, because, yeah, any talk of visions and prophecy needed to be undertaken very carefully; the Angels tended to frown on that kind of thing if they weren’t in control of it. And Dean seriously doubted that Sam was a Prophet of the Lord, for the simple reason that he wasn’t locked up in the Citadel with the current Prophet and all the potentials.

“We should move the car,” Dean said, picking up his pack and moving closer to the car. He gave in to the temptation to run his hand over her hood. “Cars are banned and this is right out in the open. Not a good idea.”

Sam nodded earnestly. “Right. Sorry. Where…?” he looked around, as if wondering where you could hide a big black car in such an open area.

“Behind my place,” Dean walked around to the passenger side. “Get in. I’ll show you.”

And okay, he should’ve just told Sam to move the car; should’ve just walked in front of it and not sullied himself by getting inside, but Dean was beyond tempted by the beautiful piece of machinery. He _needed_ to ride in her; at least once. So against his better judgement, Dean dropped his cigarette onto the ground and stamped it into the dirt before climbing into the front passenger seat. The car was nice and roomy and he was able to stretch out his sore leg.

Sam got into the driver’s seat and Dean turned to look at him and was hit by such a strong wave of déjà vu that he nearly passed out.

“Whoa!” he muttered. And then he frowned. “This feels…wrong.”

“Being in the car feels wrong?”

Dean shook his head. “Being in this seat feels wrong,” he shook his head. “It’s the craziest thing, but I just got a really strong mental image of me driving her and looking over at you sitting in the passenger seat.”

Sam’s eyes lit up and his smile became impossibly wider. “In the visions you always drove,” he frowned. “Except for that one time when you had to lie in the back because you were injured.”

Dean stared at Sam and then shook his head. “Okay, let’s get this car moved and then it sounds like we need to talk.”

 

 

Dean directed Sam to park behind the small house that Sam had peeked into earlier. There was an outhouse around the back too, and a raised vegetable garden that was obviously carefully tended. There was also a shower; a shower head with a water bag attached and a frame with a blue shower curtain around it. Sam tried hard (and pretty unsuccessfully) not to imagine Dean in it; naked, with rivulets of water cascading over his torso as he closed his eyes, the fingers of one hand trailing delicately over his body, reaching lower, until…Sam was wrenched out of his daydream by Dean clearing his throat.

“Do you have any blankets or anything? To cover up the car?”

Sam blinked and subtly adjusted himself. “Uh, yeah. I’ve got a tarpaulin. In the trunk. Hang on a sec.”

They covered the car with a big desert-sand-colored canvas tarpaulin and then Dean muttered a few words and waved a hand and Sam was well-versed enough in magic to understand that Dean had just made the car unnoticeable. Unless you knew it was there, your eyes would just skim right over it. An interesting concealment choice. Sam suspected Dean didn’t want Sam to realize he could perform spell work. Or maybe he just wasn’t supposed to perform unsanctioned spell work and didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he’d just hidden the car by Sam noticing that it had vanished.

“Come on,” Dean muttered and led Sam to the back door.

Sam paused on the threshold, mindful of the warding, and then walked inside. Aside from feeling the buzz that told him he’d just crossed a warded boundary, there was nothing.

“Have a seat,” Dean said.

There were three armchairs in the living area. Sam sat on the one closest to the door.

“Drink?” Dean said, pouring Sam a glass of water and handing it across to him.

Sam took a sip of the holy water and felt its power as it slid down his throat.

“Good stuff,” he said. “Would you like to test me with silver and salt too?”

Dean paused with his hand inside a cupboard and then pulled out a bag of salt. He opened a drawer and took out a silver knife. “Yeah,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

Sam dutifully tipped some salt into the holy water and drank it down with a grimace. He then nicked the back of his hand with the knife while Dean perched on the arm of the chair opposite and watched closely.

“Satisfied?”

Dean tilted his head in a so/so gesture.

“So. Sam Campbell. Where are you from?”

“Out West,” Sam said vaguely.

“You’re from the Borderlands?”

Sam shook his head. “A little further west than that.”

Dean nodded. “Navajo? Hopi?”

Sam shook his head again. “But the prophecy that I mentioned, that’s a Hopi prophecy.”

“So you’re not Hopi, but you live with the Hopi?”

“No. I live in Dinétah.”

Dean frowned. “That’s what the Navajo call their reservation, right?”

This time it was Sam who frowned. “That’s what the Diné call their land. And seeing as how they outlasted the American government I think maybe you should do them the courtesy of calling them by their preferred name.”

Dean stared for just a moment and then apologized. “So if you’re not…Diné…then you’re…what? A Scavenger?”

Sam watched him quietly and then sighed. “You know what I am, Dean. I came from beyond the Badlands via portal.”

Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “That only tells me what you’re _not_ and that’s part of the Church’s flock. You could be a Witch. Or…” he stopped.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“You could be a Hunter,” Dean said finally

Sam didn’t respond.

“You’re a Hunter?” Dean said.

Sam nodded.

Dean bit at his bottom lip and Sam couldn’t help but find it adorable.

“Is that gonna be a problem?”

Dean shrugged. “Hunters are dangerous heretics. And my family has a history of being betrayed by them. But…you would’ve known that coming here was dangerous for you and you did it anyway. So you must genuinely think this is important.”

“The Elders think so,” Sam began, but was stopped by Dean’s amused snort.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “It’s just…I grew up on the road and, being a Legacy, I was expected to learn to read. Of course what I was _allowed_ to read was strictly regulated, but, uh, my Dad he,” Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, “let’s just say he had some issues. He wasn’t always…there… and I used to like to get my hands on banned books and read them whenever I was by myself. I used to read a lot of ‘fantasy’” Dean made quotation marks with his fingers. “Books written before the Revelation, before most people knew about the supernatural. And in those books, the hero was always being sent on a seemingly hopeless quest by the Elders, but somehow, he always managed to save the world and get the girl,” Dean looked up at Sam, expression earnest. “I wasn’t being disrespectful, I just…I was thinking about those books.”

Privately, Sam thought that Dean’s childhood sounded lonely and depressing. He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to grow up spending so much time all by yourself and not surrounded by a large, loving clan. He didn’t say that to Dean though, he just nodded and told him that he understood; that he wasn’t offended.  

“Although,” he added, “if I was gonna save the world, I’d rather ‘get the boy’ than ‘get the girl’, if you know what I mean.”

Dean stared at him, a hint of pink creeping up his throat and then he swallowed and looked away.

“So,” he said after a moment. “Tell me about this prophecy.”

So Sam told him. About Pahana, the Lost Older White Brother and how he was supposed to come back to the People, when things looked most desperate, bringing a piece of the Fire Tablet with him, and how his return averted the apocalypse and united everyone in a new era of peace and understanding.

Dean stared at him in disbelief. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Even if that wasn’t just a wish-fulfilment story about natives getting their land back from the white man, how am I supposed to fit into it? I’m not Hopi. Or…Diné.”

Sam tried, but he couldn’t keep the look of disappointment off his face.

“Whoa, dude!” Dean said. “Don’t give me that look.”

“You’re an educated man,” Sam said, trying to keep his voice even. “Your Church fixed things so that most folk are only in a position to know what the Church tells them, but you…you can read. Even things you’re not supposed to read. You can research. Right?”

Dean nodded. “Your point?”

“So you know that if you look at the etymology of the word _mythology_ , it translates, roughly, to ‘the story of the people’. Before writing, people handed down their histories orally, in story form. In some cultures, people forgot how to interpret the truths contained in the stories, or had the stories interpreted for them by an authority with a vested interest in controlling truth. And in some cultures, people started to believe that myths were just fictional stories; that they had no inherent value. That they were silly stories only believed by primitive, uneducated people. Unless of course it was the _right_ story. The one true myth.”

Dean huffed. “Spoken like a true Heretic.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah okay,” Dean said grudgingly. “I get it. It may sound like a story, it may be couched in story-like terms, but there’s an inherent truth in it that’s open to interpretation. That still doesn’t explain why you think _I’m_ this White Brother dude.”

“Because of the visions. You were in the visions.”

“You said that before. But how do you know? I mean, what? The Seer said the guy had green eyes, brown hair, freckles? That could be a lot of guys.”

Sam shook his head. “It was you. The guy in the visions looked exactly like you.”

And here it was, his perfect opportunity to tell Dean the whole truth. That he was Sam’s brother; his lost brother, no less. That he was half-Hunter, brought up away from his people, so that like the man of legend and prophecy, he _actually_ did have a People to return to.

Before Sam could summon up the courage to tell him everything, Dean was huffing in annoyance.

“You can’t know that,” Dean frowned. “Unless… _you_ were the Seer?”

Sam looked at the ground.

“Awesome,” Dean said darkly. “I’ve got a psychic Hunter in my house speaking Heresy. I should arrest you, you know.”

Sam hunched in on himself. This was what he’d been afraid of; Dean dismissing him out of hand. Too steeped in the ways of The Preachers to see that Sam spoke truth. It was probably just as well he hadn’t mentioned the whole ‘brother’ thing. That might’ve really tipped Dean over the edge.

He looked up at Dean from beneath his bangs, preparing himself for the worst. Sam didn’t know what Dean saw in his face, but the Preacher’s expression changed and he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“And now you look like a kicked puppy,” Dean sighed again. “I won’t, you know. Have you arrested, I mean. But you have to remember who you’re talking to. I’m a Preacher. I have to uphold the Word.”

Sam nodded. “I’ve seen it, you know. The possible future. The one where the Apocalypse gets averted.”

Dean made a pained noise and frowned, but Sam plowed on. “It’s so much better. Safer. People are happier. _You’re_ happy.”

This time, the noise Dean made was closer to a choke. He stood up abruptly, still slightly favoring his left leg, Sam noticed, and crossed to the small nook with cupboards and a counter.

“I need a drink,” Dean said, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out an old bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch Whiskey and a glass. He poured himself a generous measure and slammed it back and then poured himself the same again and took a sip.

Sam watched with what he suspected was a somewhat heated expression as Dean swallowed and then ran his tongue around his lips.

“So, uh, do Hunters drink alcohol?” Dean asked. “Or is it taboo?”

“We drink alcohol,” Sam said. “We smoke too.”

Dean looked at him sharply. “I only do that for medicinal purposes,” he said.

And then scowled, like he was mentally kicking himself for his words.

Sam nodded sympathetically. “Left leg, right? Pretty major injury, I’m guessing, judging by the way you move.”

Dean stared at him open mouthed. “Hunters,” he drawled finally, shaking his head. He poured a glass of Scotch for Sam and brought it over to him.

Sam took a sip and…wow…that was _nice_. Rich, smoky and smooth.

“My dad knew some Hunters back in the day,” Dean said. “They taught him some pretty effective tracking techniques. He may hate Hunters nowadays, but he’s grudgingly impressed by some of their skills.”

And here was another opportunity. Sam still wasn’t sure Dean was ready to hear the whole truth though. So he changed the subject.

“What are you mixing with the ganja? The Marijuana,” he clarified at Dean’s puzzled expression. “I couldn’t quite place it.”

Dean’s chin came up defensively. “Just a herbal mix. Nothing special.”

Well that was bullshit, but Sam wasn’t going to call him on it.

Sam and Dean sat quietly together drinking their whiskey and it was comfortable. At least it was on Sam’s part and Dean eventually got enough whiskey into his system that he relaxed too.

“So what happens next?” he asked once the half-filled bottle of whiskey was empty. “You came, you told me about the prophecy. What’s supposed to happen now?”

Sam imagined his expression looked pretty sheepish right about now. “I’m not sure. I think I’m supposed to just wait for a sign.”

Dean stared at him blankly. “Wait for a sign?”

Sam nodded.

“What sort of sign?”

Sam shrugged.

“Seriously?”

Dean sounded kind of pissed.

“So you thought you’d, what? Just move in with me until you get some mysterious sign?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Sam fired back. “The visions told me to find you. It felt urgent. And when the Elders tied it to a prophecy about saving the world; stopping the Apocalypse; I didn’t ask too many questions. I just came.”

“Well you can’t stay here,” Dean said. “I don’t know you. And what I do know tells me I shouldn’t trust you.”

Sam tried to pretend that didn’t hurt.

“But,” Dean said. “I’m not gonna kick you out into the night. Do you have a bedroll in that car of yours?”

Sam nodded.

“Then you can sleep in my living room. But just for one night. Tomorrow, I want you gone.”


	5. Chapter Four

_It took from the dawn of human history to 1804 for the world's population to reach 1 billion. It then only took another 127 years for that population to double. By late 1999 the global population had reached 6 billion. Of course, humanity’s rapid expansion was then slowed considerably by the Revelation and that’s probably a good thing, given the way things were going. Before Lucifer rose, things were already going to Hell, metaphorically speaking. Sea levels were rising, ecological collapses were increasing and the resulting competition for land and dwindling resources was accelerating deforestation, water depletion, and the mass extinction of many of the world's species, as well as causing major wars.  The people of the world’s dominant cultures had come to view humanity as inherently toxic, as alien beings who were born to rule—and ultimately destroy—the world. Was this simply because the Four Horsemen had been released? Are we right to blame this—as so many have done—on the Angels and the Demons? Or were we on the wrong track already? Is this our chance to create a better world out of the ashes of the old one? To take our rightful place—not as nature’s overlords—but as an integral part of nature. A part of a symbiotic whole; no more or less sacred than the bees or the dandelions. **The Citadel Address, 2033, Dean Winchester**_

 

Dean jolted awake, his breathing coming too fast, too harsh. He’d been in Hell. He’d been hung on a torture rack with butcher’s hooks through his flesh. He’d been…God…he’d been ripped apart—again and again, until the Demon responsible for his torment had put the knife in _Dean’s_ hand and he’d got down off that rack and (Dean put his hands over his face as self-loathing raced through him) he’d become the torturer. 

It was just a dream. Oh God. Just a really, _really_ vivid dream.

But now he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes his saw flashes of red. Blood. And fire.

Dean tossed and turned and sighed and then he decided that maybe another glass of whiskey might help.

He tiptoed out of his room and stopped short at the sight of Sam, asleep in his sleeping roll in front of the fire, writhing and whimpering like a man in pain.  Dean edged past him and Sam rolled onto his side and slammed his hand onto the floor, hard.

Dean froze and looked down at him.

“I don't want ten years. I don't want one year. I don't want candy! I want to trade places with Dean!”

Dean’s eyes widened.  Sam was dreaming about him?

Sam frowned in his sleep. “Just take me!” he shouted. “It's a fair trade!”

Dean crouched down beside him and shook Sam’s shoulder gently. “Sam? Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

Sam’s eyes sprang open, darting around everywhere before settling on Dean. He then launched himself at Dean and threw his arms around him, hugging him hard. Dean would’ve felt kind of stupid crouching there with his arms by his sides, so he hugged Sam back and felt a sense of rightness and peace fall over him.

“You were in Hell,” Sam muttered. “And no demon would deal.”

Dean’s heart lurched. He pulled away from Sam and held him at arm’s length. “I was just dreaming about being in Hell.”

Sam sat back on his haunches and peered up at Dean, his face pinched. “My dream,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t just a dream. It was a vision-dream.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “You’re saying…I’m going to Hell? Like, for real?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. But, uh, I don’t always see our…reality.  Sometimes I see one of the other multiverses; or what happens if one of the other paths is taken instead, you know?”

Dean frowned. “Hang on. What do you mean ‘if one of the other paths is taken’?”

Sam folded his arms across his chest. “The future isn’t set. At least, that’s what Hunters believe. There are points where the path diverges and one tiny change at one of those points can change everything.”

Dean ran a hand over his mouth as he thought about what Sam was saying. Castiel had said pretty much the exact same thing the other day, but Dean hadn’t really thought it through; hadn’t seen the implications. He’d just assumed that the Angels were the good guys keeping everybody safely on the right path and the Demons were the bad guys trying to derail them from it. But if the future truly wasn’t set; if the path could be changed; then it was possible the Apocalypse _could_ be stopped—something the Angels held was a heretical viewpoint.

Stopping the apocalypse. Saving humanity. Not destroying the world. That…that was huge.

It went against everything Dean had ever been taught, but…maybe this Hunter was worth listening to.

“I think we could both do with a drink,” Dean said.

He lit a couple of candles and then took a bottle of Tom Williamson’s home brew from his kitchen cupboard, rueing the fact that they’d finished the good stuff earlier.

He poured Sam a shot and gestured him over to the living room chairs. “Careful. This one don’t go down as smooth as the Glenfiddich.”

Sam took the shot and slammed it back without so much as a grimace. “Not bad,” he said.

Dean sat down and took his own sip and then swirled the amber liquid around in the bottom of his glass with a small frown etched onto his face.

“Why do you think I dreamed of Hell just now? If your dream really was a vision then…I’m not a Seer, Sam. I’ve never had a vision or anything like that. How do I know you didn’t plant all that in my head somehow?”

Sam hunched over and looked miserable. “I guess you don’t,” he said quietly. “I could tell you I didn’t, but those are only words. You’ve got no reason to trust me yet. I haven’t earned it.”

It wasn’t what Dean had expected to hear. He’d expected some pretty speech from Sam about how Dean could definitely trust him. The kind of pretty speech he used to get from his dad (I’ll definitely be home for you birthday this year, Son, you can trust me on that) usually right before his dad let him down again.

He actually found it reassuring that Sam hadn’t offered him meaningless platitudes.

“Is it possible,” Sam said haltingly, “that you might have some Witch or Hunter genes in your ancestry?

Dean snorted. “I’m a Preacher, from a long line of Preachers.”

Sam looked, Dean thought, a little pained.

“Right,” Sam said. “But…who knows…in the past…?”

Dean shook his head, but inside his mind a little voice was whispering, reminding him of Rowena MacLeod’s words: _You reek of power_ , she’d said. _You have no idea, do you_ , she’d said. For just a brief moment, she’d made him doubt himself. But then, that’s what Witches did. Hunters too. Yes, he was particularly adept at spellwork. Yes, he had good instincts. It was nothing more than that.

He didn’t have any Witch or Hunter blood.

He didn’t.

Except…those good instincts he was so proud of? They weren’t so sure of that. Dean’s brain was telling him that he was a Preacher, through and through. His gut was telling him that he was _more_ than that. But until he could get his brain and his gut to line up, Dean was going to keep quiet on the subject.

Which meant it was time to change it.

 Dean poured himself another drink.

“Tell me about this future, you’ve seen,” he said to Sam.

He watched as Sam gripped the glass tightly in his giant paw.

“It’s just flashes, really,” Sam said. “Like, you eating pie and laughing. And you driving the Impala with the music turned up high. I’m always right beside you and you’re always…happy. Laughing. Smiling. Joking.”

“It doesn’t take much to make me happy,” Dean held up his glass. “A drink. Some good food. Good sex,” he looked directly at Sam and Sam blushed and looked away.

Interesting.

“I can get all that now,” Dean continued. “So what makes _this_ future _better_?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s just…a feeling I get, when I’m in the vision. That the world is better,” he closed his eyes, brow furrowed. “Let me…sometimes if I kind of…meditate…on how I was feeling in the vision I can get a bit more information. Just…give me a minute.”

Dean watched as Sam sat silently, eyeballs moving rapidly beneath closed lids.

“I think,” he said finally, “I could be wrong, but it feels like…they’re gone. The Angels and the Demons.”

Dean gaped at him. “What do you mean gone?”

Sam shrugged. “Back to their own Realms.”

Dean huffed. “That’s a nice fantasy, Sam. Never gonna happen.”

 But damn, it would be nice.

 Dean swallowed back the rest of his whiskey. He was tired, but he also knew that he was too wired to sleep.

“You ready to hit the sack?” he asked Sam.

Sam shrugged. “I guess. But that dream,” he shook his head. “I don’t think I’m getting back to sleep any time soon.”

Dean gave Sam a thorough once over, taking in the long brown hair with the white streaks, the tanned skin and the sheer size of the man. He was slim, but muscular and he really did have big hands and feet. Which of course, led to Dean speculating idly about the size of his cock, wondering if he was proportional, because _wow_.

Dean shifted in his seat, trying to adjust himself without making it obvious.

“Are those white streaks in your hair a Hunter Clan thing or were you just born with them?” he asked, blurting out the first thing he thought of, to stop himself thinking about Sam’s dick.

Sam frowned. “What white streaks?”

“The front of your hair. It’s streaked with white. Or grey, maybe.”

Sam put a hand up to his hair. “Huh. Do you have a mirror?”

Dean went and fetched one from his bedroom and handed it to Sam.

Sam looked at himself with wide eyes, petting at his hair. “Well damn,” he said. “I’m guessing that happened when I travelled through the portal. Some kind of magical residue.”

He put the mirror down.

“I think I probably _should_ hit the sack; at least try to get some more sleep.”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Me too. I’ve got a homily to prepare for Sunday.”

But neither of them moved.

Eventually, Dean cleared his throat.

“In your dream…you said _no demon would deal_. And you were yelling, _I want to trade places with Dean_.”

Sam nodded.

“You were really gonna go to Hell for me?”

Sam snorted. “In some of the other multiverses we’re actually really close. Like, each other’s whole world. In the vision…I would’ve gone to Hell for you in a heartbeat. And you actually _did_ go for me.”

Once again, a feeling of rightness settled over Dean. In a whole bunch of the multiverses he and this guy were prepared to die for each other; to go to Hell for each other. Sam had _Seen_ that, and on the strength of that alone, he’d sought Dean out in this world, despite the fact that Dean was a Preacher; part of a system that would willingly punish Sam for his talents.

Sam yawned and stood up. “Well,” he said. “I’m gonna,” he nodded toward his bedroll on the floor in front of the fire.

Dean stood too. “If you want,” he said hesitantly, “I’ve got a pretty big bed. Plenty of room for two people. To sleep.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

Dean nodded. “Like I’m gonna let the guy who was willing to go to Hell for me sleep on the floor. No spooning though.”

Sam grinned. “I can’t guarantee that. You look pretty cuddly.”

Dean’s outrage was only partly false. “I do _not_ look cuddly,” he spluttered. “You’re cuddly!”

Sam chuckled; a happy, joyous sound. “Guilty as charged,” he said.

Dean could feel his cheeks heating and he made sure, when he climbed into bed, to lie with his back to Sam, right on the far edge of the bed.

He felt the dip as Sam climbed in beside him and settled in a mirror image of Dean.

“Good night, Dean,” Sam said after a long moment of silence.

“Night, Sam.”

Yeah. Nothing had ever felt more right than this and Dean was suddenly sure of one thing; he no longer wanted Sam to leave in the morning.

 

 

Dean woke slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep. He was right in the center of his bed, he was warm, his back especially so, and there were arms wrapped around him.

Dean’s eyes snapped open as the previous night came flooding back. He’d let Sam sleep in his bed. He never did that. Never let anyone sleep in his bed. And he and Sam hadn’t even had sex. They’d just slept.

 And, Dean frowned, he was pretty sure he’d stipulated no spooning.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” Sam murmured from way too close to Dean’s ear.

“Get off me,” Dean said.

It sounded like a token protest, even to his own ears.

“Do you really want me to?” Sam challenged.

The answer to that was a resounding no. Dean was far too comfy to want anyone to move.

He grumbled inarticulately and settled himself more comfortably in Sam’s arms with a bit of wriggling.

Sam groaned and shifted his hips and…yep…the Hunter was definitely proportional. Dean bit his lip as he imagined getting his mouth on that cock.

Sam had said that they were _really close_ in most realities. He’d said that the future he’d seen showed them always together. It stood to reason then that they were lovers. And if Dean was honest with himself, he’d been attracted to the Hunter since the moment he’d laid eyes on him.

“Stop wriggling,” Sam’s voice was tight and slightly breathless.

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t I’m gonna embarrass myself and come in my pants.”

Dean grinned to himself. “I’d rather you came in my ass.”

“ _Fuck_!” Sam’s cock thrust hard against Dean’s crack. “We can’t. Dean, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too soon. I can’t risk,” Sam groaned his hips making abortive little thrusts like he was trying to stop himself, but couldn’t.

Well fuck that. Dean grabbed one of Sam’s hands and placed it over his own very hard cock.

“C’mon,” he urged. “Just like this, okay?”

Sam groaned again and gave in, stroking Dean through his shorts just the way he liked it while thrusting against his ass with wild abandon.

Dean rolled onto his back and pulled Sam on top of him. Their cocks slotted together just right and they rutted against each other like men possessed, breathless and gasping until Dean pulled Sam’s head down and kissed him hard. Sam gave as good as he got and it wasn’t long until they were groaning out their orgasms.

Sam rolled off him and folded an arm across his face. “Shit,” he said.

Dean frowned. “What do you mean, _shit_?”

Sam turned to face him, his eyes soft. “Not that; that was awesome. Even with the morning breath.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “But?” he said.

Sam was silent for a long time. “It’s just,” he said, “there’s a lot you don’t…there’s a lot at stake here. We shouldn’t…let ourselves…get…distracted.”

Dean could respect that. He wasn’t averse to a little casual sex here and there, but there was a _chemistry_ between him and Sam—an intensity to their interactions that Dean had never experienced before and truthfully, he wasn’t sure he _could_ keep it casual with Sam. So yeah, better to wait until …well, at least until they got that sign Sam was apparently waiting for.

“Right,” Dean said. “Save the world first, fuck later.”

Sam turned slowly to face him. “You believe me? That we can change things?”

“I believe it’s worth trying,” Dean said. “And if you wanna hang around here for a while and wait for some sign or other, that’s okay with me.”

Sam’s smile was blinding and Dean’s stomach swooped at the sight of it.

“C’mon,” he said, patting Sam’s thigh. “We should clean up. And have breakfast. And then, I’ve gotta work on my homily.”

Over breakfast Dean quizzed Sam on what it was like to grow up in a traditional Hunter community.

It wasn’t like Dean had _never_ met a Hunter, but the ones he _had_ met were nomads; travelling alone or in pairs and they were taciturn to say the least; questions were not encouraged. Now that Dean had the opportunity to bombard a Hunter with questions about his life, his culture and his beliefs, well…Dean was going to take it.

Sam, for his part, seemed more than happy to talk to Dean about his childhood, about the various rites of passage that a Hunter went through, and about his family. He was obviously close to his mom and told Dean about her at length. It made Dean ache for his own mom.

“Must be nice,” he said. “To have a relationship like that with your mom. I don’t really remember mine. She died when I was just a kid.”

“She died?” Sam looked shocked.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “My baby brother too.”

Sam looked horrified.

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “I don’t really remember them. It was a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Sam said.

Dean thought Sam looked close to tears. He seemed to be winding himself up to say something too.

And then Sam tilted his head. “Is that…horses hooves?”

Dean stood up and looked out the window. Sure enough, a rider was approaching fast.

Sam’s whole being morphed into watchful alertness and Dean frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but everyone knew he was home and it’s not like his door was ever shut to one of his parishioners.

This though, looked urgent.

As soon as the rider was close enough, Dean recognized Victor and relaxed marginally.

“It’s okay,” he said to Sam as he went to open the door, “it’s a buddy of mine.”

“Did you hear the news?” Victor said as soon as Dean opened the door.

“News?” Dean frowned, widening the door and letting Victor in. “What news?”

Victor followed Dean through to the living room. “The Prophet Jacob died the day before yesterday.”

Dean had only met Jacob once, when he’d been doing his final training at the Citadel, but he’d seemed like a decent guy.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “Which one of the potentials was triggered?”

But Victor didn’t answer, too busy staring suspiciously at Sam.

“Vic, this is Sam. An old friend of mine from my time out on the road. Sam this is Victor Henricksen, he’s a lay Preacher and a good friend.”

Victor nodded, his eyes narrowed. “That’s some hair you’ve got there, Sam.”

“Vic,” Dean said warningly. “Don’t start with that. That rule about hair is stupid and you agree. It’s more in line with the Obsolete translations than with the DC Bible.”

“Sure,” Victor agreed easily enough. “But that hair marks him as an Outsider,” he lowered his voice. “Are you sure you can trust him?”

Dean’s gut was screaming at him that the answer to that question was a resounding _yes_ , even though his brain was still urging caution.  His brain sounded remarkably like his father and realizing that made something click into place for Dean. He _did_ trust Sam. He trusted him absolutely. And mostly, that trust was based on intuition, something his father had never believed in.

John Winchester had hated it whenever Dean got a _feeling_ about something. Facts and logic were the only things you could rely on, according to John. Intuition; instincts were primitive beliefs. Unreliable. Not too be trusted. And nor was anyone who let themselves be guided by such nonsense. It was only, Dean realized, his father’s paranoia that was holding him back where Sam was concerned.

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “I trust him. Now, are you gonna tell me which Potential triggered or not?”

“None of them,” Victor said.

Dean’s mouth dropped open and Victor looked supremely satisfied by Dean’s response.

“What do you mean _none of them_? How is that even possible?”

“It shouldn’t be,” Victor said smugly. “The Angels have always said that all Angels instinctively know the names of all the prophets past, present and future. And they told us they’d gathered all of the ones currently alive in the Citadel to keep the Conduits for the Inspired Word safe. This is huge, Dean!”

Dean frowned. “So what do they think happened? Did they miss one? And how did you find out about this? Lord Samandriel?”

Victor nodded. “He and Lord Castiel are searching the South-Central Territories for the new Prophet.”

Dean snorted. “Well that’s like looking for a needle in a…really large pile of needles.”

“Yes and no.”

Victor explained that Lord Michael had apparently seen the Divine Light strike down from the Heavens and had tracked it to the American continent, but that all trace of it had subsequently vanished.

“So God made a new Prophet who isn’t under the control of the Angels?” Sam said slowly.

 Victor glanced at him and then nodded. “Looks that way.”

“And now somehow that new Prophet is hiding from the Angels?”

Victor’s lips thinned and he nodded again.

“So I guess the real questions are: one, why would God do this? And, two, is God hiding the Prophet or is someone else?”

“It must be God,” Victor said. “No one else could do it.”

Sam didn’t respond to that. Dean looked at him closely and was sure the young Hunter knew better.

“You staying for breakfast, Vic?” he asked.

He and Sam had more or less finished, but Dean could always eat more bacon and he was happy to eat again with Vic. Sam went off to shower and freshen up, which of course meant that Vic quizzed Dean about Sam. Dean spun a tale for his buddy about Sam being from a small community on the Borderlands who Dean had met as a teenager when he was on the road with his father. 

“Were you planning on staying over tonight?” Dean asked eventually.

Victor shook his head. “Nah, I’ve gotta get back. I was kinda hoping for a post-breakfast quickie, but with tall, dark and mysterious here, I’m guessing that’s out of the question?”

Dean couldn’t quite help the face he pulled and then felt immediately bad at the way Victor’s shoulders slumped.

“Right,” Victor said. “I shouldn’t have asked. I could see the way you were looking at each other,” he clapped Dean on the back. “I guess I’ll see you ‘round, Winchester.”

Victor was barely out of the door when a familiar fluttering announced the arrival of an Angel.

“Hello, Dean,” said a gravelly voice.

Dean turned with a sigh. “Hi, Cas.”

Castiel inclined his head and peered at Dean like a bird sizing up potential prey. It never failed to be disconcerting. Still, something in the Angels stillness; something in the set of his shoulders and the intensity of his expression made Dean think that Cas was particularly agitated today.

“What’s up?” Dean asked.

Castiel tilted his head the other way. “Did Victor not tell you when he was here?”

“Missing Prophet,” Dean said succinctly. “But I get the feeling there’s more to the story. You seem...stressed.”

Cas blinked. “The Path has gone dark,” he said finally. “First God created a new Prophet and then, shortly after, the Path just…vanished. We are in uncharted territory. None of my superiors have _Seen_ this future and they are…stressed.”

Dean felt a surge of hope at Cas’s words, because if the timeline that the Angels had always insisted was preordained had suddenly vanished; if Sam was having visions of a future with the Apocalypse derailed; if God had sent a Prophet outside of the Angels’ control…suddenly the future seemed bright and anything seemed possible. God, it appeared, had circumvented the Angels and was perhaps trying to send a message directly to the ordinary folk; something the Angels and the Church hierarchy would consider deeply blasphemous, were Dean to say it out loud.  Briefly, Dean wondered if Sam was the new Prophet, but he dismissed the thought quickly. Sam had mentioned a long history of visions and surely, if he’d suddenly been struck by lightning and gained the ability to understand The Word, he would have mentioned that.

Something else occurred to Dean and he looked back at Cas who was looking decidedly…shifty.

“Cas,” he said. “You said that none of your superiors have seen the future. But…something you said the other day…about the Path and surely your superiors know better than you…Cas, I’ve gotta ask…have you _Seen_ the future? Have you _Seen_ a new Path?”

Cas’s head was tilted as if he were listening to something and then he looked straight at Dean, mouth solemn and eyes wide and bright. He nodded.

The back door opened and a freshly showered Sam walked in, wearing clean blue jeans and a blue and grey plaid shirt.

“You!” Castiel growled.

Dean watched in alarm as the Angels eyes glowed a bright icy blue and his wings flared in shadow behind him.

Sam stopped and stared at Cas with wide fear-filled eyes.

“Abomination!” Cas said, his voice deeper than Dean had ever heard it. “You shouldn’t be here!”

“This is Sam,” Dean said and Castiel gasped, his eyes losing their icy hue and filling with confusion.

“You know who he is?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “He told me everything.”

Cas folded his wings. “So…you know…what he is?”

Dean nodded. “I do. And we’re good.”

Castiel tilted his head, frowning, and apparently deep in thought. “You asked before if I had seen a new Path,” he said finally. “And I have. I have seen you on a journey—an important journey that changes the world—with people who are hidden to me. Sam is hidden to me.”

“How is that possible?” Dean asked.

“One of my Clan tattoos,” Sam said. “It’s supposed to hide us from Angels and I guess it does.”

“Show me,” Castiel said and Sam hesitated just for a moment before lifting his shirt and showing Castiel the intricate patterned runes tattooed across his ribs.

“Ah,” said Castiel. “Yes, I see. Very good.”

He laid a hand on Sam’s ribcage and then told Dean to lift up his tee shirt. Dean did so with a puzzled frown. Castiel laid his hand on Dean’s ribcage.

“Ow! Son of a bitch!” Dean hissed. “What the Hell, Cas?”

“I have just carved the same runes onto your ribs,” he said.

Dean frowned. “Why?”

“I believe that you and Sam are meant to find the new Prophet and protect them. And I don’t want anyone to be able to stop you from doing so. The two of you, coming together, here, now, with everything that is going on, puts a different slant on some of Lord Zachariah’s earlier actions. There are things I will need to consider carefully. Things I may need to investigate further.”

“So just to be clear…Sam’s not the new Prophet?”

Castiel shook his head.  “You need to prepare. The glimpses I have seen of the new Path showed you travelling through the Badlands. As soon as you are ready I will fly you to the Borderlands.”

“Fly?” Dean said, his voice tight.

“You will not be aware of the flight. To you it will seem instantaneous.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” Sam said, addressing Castiel directly for the first time. “We need to go by car.”

Castiel turned his attention back to Sam. “Is this car big and black?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded.

“I have _Seen_ the car. I can take her as well.”

“Her?” Dean queried, surprised that the Angel would give the car a gender.

“Oh yes,” Castiel nodded solemnly. “In the future, you were very clear with me about that point. Baby is your best girl.”

“Baby?” Dean said feeling his face begin to flush.

Sam chuckled. “C’mon, Dean. Let’s get packed.”

 

 

The world reassembled itself around Sam and he fought off the bout of vertigo that was threatening to make him throw up and then looked across at Dean.

Dean had his head in his hands and was groaning softly.

All up, Sam decided that Angel Air was nowhere near as bad as portal travel, but Dean sure didn’t look happy.

“You okay, man?” he asked.

Dean took a deep shuddery breath. “Yeah,” he said. “My stomach’s in so many knots I don’t think I’ll be able to poop for a week, but yeah. I’m okay.”

He finally looked up at Sam and grinned weakly.

“Still feels wrong, you being in the driver’s seat.”

Before Sam could respond, Castiel rapped on Dean’s window and Dean wound it down so that they could speak.

“The Badlands begin less than a mile down that road,” he said. “Good luck. And if you need me, you’ll need to pray loudly and give me an exact location. I won’t be able to find you now that you are hidden from Angels.”

Dean nodded and thanked the Angel for all his help and then Sam started the engine and headed down the road that Cas had indicated.

Dean was quiet and when Sam turned to look, his hands were bunched in his lap, his knuckles white.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just...even if we’re in a really remote area, we’re still in Civilization. If I get caught in a car,” he chuckled. “I guess being caught in a car is the least of my worries, really. I’m trying to find a rogue Prophet so that I can stop the Apocalypse. I’m committing Heresy,” he shook his head. “It’s insane how much I trust you. Believe me when I tell you, if I find out you’ve whammied me, I will stab you.”

Sam looked sideways at him, saw the small smile on his face and figured he was joking. Mostly.

They rounded a bend in the road and Sam slammed the brakes on to avoid the tangle of car bodies creating a makeshift barricade across the road.

“Shit,” Dean said. “We’ll have to go around.”

Sam shook his head. “See those orange flags?”

“They’ve got a minefield?”

“Yep.”

A man wandered out from the twisted pile of cars. He had a long, thick beard and was wearing a knitted cap and a trench coat.  He also had an M4 hung over his shoulder by a strap.

“On a Hunting trip?” he said to Sam, in the ancient language of the Hunters.   

 “ _Tá_ ,” Sam replied.

The man nodded and waved a hand and a moment later, a portion of the barricade slid away, leaving just enough room to drive a car through.

“Nice set up,” Dean said appreciatively as Sam thanked the man and drove them slowly through the slim passageway. “What did you guys say, anyway?”

Sam explained.

“Huh,” Dean frowned. “Sounds like the Border towns have a pretty good relationship with the Hunters.

Sam nodded. “Some, yeah. We help keep them safe, far more than you guys ever do. No offence.”

Dean didn’t reply and Sam figured he probably _had_ offended the Preacher, but then Dean sighed.

“Yeah,” he said. “We do have missionaries—my Dad’s one—but most of them have no love for Hunters and they won’t go anywhere near a town that’s Hunter-friendly. They see it as treasonous and cut them off from the Flock. My dad used to think we could work with Hunters. Cooperate more. But then something happened and,” he shrugged, “he’s hated Hunters ever since.”

Should Sam tell him? It would probably be the right thing to do. But what if Dean freaked out? What if he demanded that Sam turn the car around? Or let him out? Choices mattered. They could make or break the entire future. What was the right thing to do?

Sam decided that he wouldn’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe once they’d found this missing Prophet he could tell him. Sam wondered how Dean would react when he learned that he and Sam were brothers; that his mom was a Hunter; that the Angel Zachariah had wanted Sam dead because of his psychic abilities.

Instead, he offered to teach Dean _Sealgairtoiree_ , the native tongue of the Hunter community. Dean found it a challenge—he wasn’t anything like as adept at languages as Sam was, but by the time the first hour of their journey into the Badlands was complete, he’d learned how to say a handful of basic phrases, even though he was struggling with some of the pronunciation.

“No,” Sam said. “It’s a softer ‘c _h_ ’ sound than that. C _h_ not Ch.”

Dean stared at him. “I literally can’t hear the difference, let alone say it.”

“You can, Dean. C _h_ not Ch. C’mon.”

Dean glared. “Oh screw you. We can’t all be the Master of Tongues.”

It was so like the way Sam and Jo and his other pseudo siblings back home bantered that Sam couldn’t resist the temptation to poke his tongue out at Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Bitch,” he said.

“Jerk,” Sam replied.

A sense of rightness rolled through Sam as he said the word and he heard the echo of it from a thousand exchanges across a multitude of multiverses.

He met Dean’s wide eyes and knew that he’d just experienced the same sensation.

“Okay, weird,” Dean said. “And also not. Which is weirder.”

Sam knew exactly what he meant and nodded in wholehearted agreement.

Dean was looking across at him with a small frown on his face. “It feels so _wrong_ not being in the driver’s seat.”

“Would you like to drive?” Sam asked.

Dean’s face lit up. “Hell, yes!” his face fell. “But I don’t know how to.”

“I’ll teach you.”

Dean beamed again. “Really? Awesome! But, uh, maybe we should find the Prophet first. Do you have any idea how to do that? Because I have no clue. And driving around hoping to run into them doesn’t seem like much of a plan.”

Sam explained to Dean that while it might seem like they were just relying on luck, what they’d actually done was put themselves in fate’s path; that Castiel had seen Dean driving in this vicinity with people who were hidden to Angels, so the chances were good that if they drove around in this area, sooner or later they’d come across those people.

Dean pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “That’s really not a plan,” he said disapprovingly.

Privately, Sam agreed. This was a far cry from the Foraging expeditions he usually went on with Bobby and the team. Those were always meticulously planned. And while you couldn’t ever plan for everything in the Badlands, at least they always had maps and set destinations. This was more like wandering aimlessly in the desert, hoping to find an oasis.

“Do you have a better idea?” he asked Dean.

“Not really,” Dean said with a sigh. “I was thinking maybe we could track the lighting, but firstly, it’s not really lightning, it’s divine will, and secondly, it never landed, it poured itself into someone, and before Michael could track where it ended up, it’d vanished. So,” Dean shrugged. “Beats me. Why God always has to talk in obscure signs and burning bushes and whatnot is beyond me. Something simple and direct would be nice.”

Dean had barely finished speaking when an eerie rumbling started and the ground just a few yards in front of them fell away. Sam hit the brakes, sending sand spitting up from the nearly-covered road.  

“What the Hell?” Dean said when the rumbling and shaking stopped.

An enormous sinkhole had opened up in front of them. It stretched out maybe 120 yards in front of them and appeared to be a good half mile in either direction width-wise.

Sam got out of the car and Dean followed a beat later. They peered down into the hole and Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not a Hell pit,” he said.

Dean’s eyes widened.

“Just a regular sinkhole,” Sam added.

Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “So I guess we just drive around?”

“Yeah,” Sam turned to head back to the car and Dean’s hand shot out and grabbed him.

“No way!” Dean exclaimed. “Look at that!”

Several clumps of dirt had fallen in the shape of an arrow, pointing off to the right.

Sam couldn’t help grinning. “That’s a Hunter sign!”

“A what?”

“Hunters mark trails with particular signs as a way of communicating important information to others. I’ll teach them to you, if you like.”

Dean nodded. “I’d like that. So did a Hunter make this sign?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You literally just asked God for an explicit sign. You couldn’t get less subtle than this.”

“Yeah,” Dean shook his head. “Wow.”

He looked toward the heavens and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Thank you,” he called out.

 

 

Since they’d changed direction, Sam and Dean had driven for two hours straight, with one brief pit stop to answer the call of nature. At one point Dean had asked about music, recalling Sam’s comment yesterday about him being happy in the future, driving the Impala with the music turned up. Sam had pulled out a cassette tape of The Rolling Stones from the box in the center console and Dean had lit up when _Paint it Black_ began to play.

“This is awesome! Where did you find all these?”

Sam shrugged. “Here and there when were out on Foraging Expeditions.”

Dean whistled, low and impressed. “I’ve never heard anything like this before. All we’re allowed to listen to are hymns. This is amazing.”

Later, when Sam put on Beggars Banquet and Dean heard _Sympathy for the Devil_ for the first time, he went very quiet.

“I can understand why The Church banned this type of music,” he said. “It’s very…it speaks to you. The combination of the music and the words…it really stirs something in your soul.”   

Dean was even more impressed by Led Zepplin. As _Ramble On_ played, he just couldn’t keep the huge grin off his face.

“See?” Sam said. “I told you driving around listening to music made you happy.”

Now, according to the bullet-riddled roadside sign they were approaching, Sam and Dean were about to enter the town of Sterling.

“Good timing,” Sam muttered, glancing nervously at the sun slinking toward the horizon amid a deep pink sky. “And I can even see a Church steeple. Let’s hope it offers Sanctuary.”

Dean turned to look at him. “Don’t all Churches?”

“Nope,” Sam shook his head. “We’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the way they’re blessed. Or the strength of the congregation’s faith. But some Churches are truly holy ground and others…just aren’t. Generally speaking the older a Church—or Mosque, or Synagogue—the better the chances, but not always.”

Dean didn’t make any remark, just _hmmed_ thoughtfully.

As luck would have it, St Anthony’s Catholic Church _did_ provide Sanctuary and it was on the outskirts of town so they managed to get inside before they’d attracted any attention from the few freaks that Sam could feel milling around in the town’s center.

They set up their bedrolls right next to the altar, just for some extra security, and then scavenged through the Church to see if they could find anything useful. Dean found two boxes full of votive candles and another, slightly smaller box filled with altar candles. Sam found half a dozen unused, lined exercise books in a cupboard and whooped with delight. Paper was a valuable commodity.

They had bread and cheese for their supper that night, washed down with a bottle of Missouri’s iced tea, followed by a shot each of whiskey.

Afterwards, they lay in their bedrolls and talked, about anything and everything. Sam told Dean some of the stories about _Naayéé neizghání_ and _Tóbájíshchíní_ : Changing Woman’s sons who were charged with protecting the people. Dean told Sam about his time as a trainee Preacher in the Citadel. Sam drew some Hunter signs in the dust on the floor and explained what they meant.

Dean couldn’t believe how well he and Sam just seemed to _get_ each other. He’d never just clicked like this with another person before, it was incredible.

“Victor,” Sam said, “mentioned my hair, said it showed I was an Outsider. I know all the men in your community have short hair and all the women long hair, but why is that?”

Dean explained that it was a throwback to old fashioned notions of gender identity and a bit silly really since God was both male and female and the Angels were neither and humanity now knew that Heaven didn’t give a rat’s ass about that sort of thing.

“The Scribe of God said, and I quote, God is utterly indifferent to human ideas of gender, and to human sexuality. Because of that proclamation, a lot of the more fundamentalist Christians, Muslims and Jews tried to claim that the Angels were really Demons in disguise and were obviously working for the Devil.”

“Right,” Sam nodded. “My grandfather told me about that. The Angels called the fundamentalists Heretics and got pretty busy with the smiting. Soon enough no one was all that keen on arguing about it anymore. Although I have heard that some groups went underground and still practice their religion according to the Old Books.”

“Yeah,” Dean stretched and then rolled onto his side. “All these people were hanging out for some kind of second coming, but when it came, they didn’t like who came or what they said. It’s like that Rolling Stone’s song we played earlier. You can’t always get what you want. But sometimes you can get what you need.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You think we _needed_ the Angels?”

Dean took a moment to respond. “I think we—humanity—were on our way to self-destructing. Lucifer rising; the Revelation; I think that put us onto a different path. And maybe, if we can do this; if we _can_ stop the Apocalypse in its tracks; maybe we can turn things around. Maybe it’s our chance to create a better world, just like the Hopi legend says.”


	6. Chapter Five

_I was hands-on—real hands-on for, wow, ages. I was so sure if I kept stepping in, teaching, punishing, that these beautiful creatures that I created... would grow up. But it only stayed the same. And I saw that I needed to step away and let my baby find its way. Being overinvolved is no longer parenting. It's enabling. The greatest gift I gave to my beautiful creations was free will. I thought that if I left them alone, took an extended vacation, they’d learn to stop relying on prayers to me, put on their grown up boots, if you will, and get on with things. Of course when I stopped by a few millennia later to check on them, I discovered that when you’re not around to micromanage, the human priests start to intercede for you and to take it upon themselves to interpret your actions to the believers. Inevitably, they begin to follow an agenda of their own that involves bigger and better Churches, demands for larger offerings and, of course, they begin making up their own rules in ways that clearing misinterpret your Holy Scripture, but which serve their own needs and prejudices. And if you’re really unlucky, your Angels go rogue too, frog-marching the world down the very Path you were trying to avoid by going away, somehow convincing themselves it’s the Path you wanted the world to be on. What’s a God to do? Smite everything and start over? Let me tell you, I considered it. But, uh, I had a lot of time to think while I was away and, let’s just say that I developed a degree of liberal existential angst that isn’t really common among us God-types. So I refrained from smiting you all and instead I threw out a few revolutionary seeds, tried to get things back on track without interfering too much. I mean, I may have also given a few really explicit signs and anointed a new Prophet, but, uh, the rebels who picked up the gauntlet were already well on the right path by then.  Are things better now? I think so. Of course, the world won’t ever be perfect. There will always be people who choose to do bad things. That’s the downside of free will. But free will’s worth it, I think. If nothing else, the debacle with the Angels taught me that. **Conversations: 20-42, Book of Chuck. The Winchester Gospels.**_

 

It was only the second time they’d shared sleeping arrangements, but Dean was getting kind of used to waking up with Sam wrapped around him like an octopus. Last night, they’d pushed their sleeping mats together and even though they had their own separate rolls of blankets, they’d slept cuddled up. For warmth.

Okay, Dean may have been hoping for a little action, but Sam was uncomfortable about it. When pressed, he’d said it was because they were in a Church, which made no sense. For a start, God had that whole omnipresent thing going on, so could see them doing anything, anywhere, anytime. And for another thing, God didn’t find sex offensive. God wouldn’t care two hoots if Sam and Dean had sex in a Church, but Sam obviously cared and Dean was nothing if not a considerate lover. He didn’t coerce bed partners. If he didn’t have enthusiastic positive consent, then there was no sex.

Of course, that rule was a little hard to stick to when a sleeping Sam was rutting against your ass. Again. Dean pressed a hand to his own straining hard-on and decided, screw it, if Sam was sleep-humping him, he deserved to get a little something out of it too. So Dean turned to face Sam, moved in right beside him and then threw a leg over him so that their groins were pressed together. He then wrapped an arm around Sam, grabbed hold of his ass and began to grind against him. Sam reciprocated, enthusiastically and then his eyes flew open and he froze.

“Dean…what...?” he stuttered.

“You were humping me in your sleep, so I thought I’d return the favor. Please don’t make me stop, Sammy. Please.”

Sam’s eyes darkened at _Sammy_ and he stared into Dean’s eyes with unabashed desire.  

“Yeah. Okay,” Sam bit at his bottom lip. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t want…I…”

Dean swivelled his hips in a way that made Sam groan. “Don’t be sorry,” he said.

“Oh fuck,” Sam said. “Oh fuck, Dean. I don’t even care that…fuck…I want you so bad.”

And that was all Dean needed to hear. He yanked Sam’s shorts down and then fumbled at his own waistband until Sam helped him out. And then Sam’s big hand was wrapped around their cocks, stroking hard and they were rutting against each other desperately. Dean snaked a hand around to Sam’s ass and grasped a handful of ass-cheek, squeezing hard, before rubbing a finger against Sam’s hole.

“Fuck!” Sam rolled on top of Dean, thrusting hard against his cock and balls and coming with a moan when Dean shoved a finger inside him.

He slumped against Dean for a moment and then rolled back onto his side and finished Dean off with his hand.

Dean opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and…what the hell?

The pendant that Sam always wore, that Dean only knew about because he could see the black string it was attached to around Sam’s neck, was now hanging over his tee-shirt. It was sticking straight out and pointing at Dean. And it was glowing with a bright white light.

“Uh, Sam?” Dean nodded at the pendant and Sam’s eyes widened.

“Well, shit,” he said.

“Why is it doing that?” Dean asked.

Sam sat up. “Hang on. I’ll explain it, I promise, but, uh, first…”

He delved quickly into his duffle bag for a spare tee-shirt and they used if for a quick clean up

When that was done (with Sam’s pendant pointing steadfastly at Dean no matter where Sam moved to) they sat facing each other on their sleeping mats.

“So,” Dean said. “What’s going on?”

Sam ran a hand through his sleep (and sex) tussled hair. “Bobby gave me this for my _Deasghnátha_ , you know, the coming of age ceremony I mentioned?”

Dean nodded.

“Before I left to come here, Bobby told me that I was meant to give it to you. Some visiting Seer a few years ago had told him so. I don’t know why it’s doing this, but, uh, I’ve been waiting for the right time to give it to you. So. I guess that’s now.”

Slowly, reverently, Sam took the pendant off and placed it around Dean’s neck. Dean’s eyes flared with white hot heat for one brief moment and he heard Sam gasp and call his name, and then the pendant stopped glowing. It nestled warmly against Dean’s chest.

“Dean?” Sam said again.

“I’m okay,” Dean said.

“Your eyes,” Sam’s voice was urgent, “they glowed.”

Dean nodded. “This is gonna sound strange,” he said, “but, uh, we need to go. Like now.”

Sam tiled his head and examined Dean closely. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” Dean nodded. “Good. We…we have to go. Now,” Dean clambered to his feet and started packing up his stuff. “I can’t…I can’t stop. I have to…there’s somewhere…I have to be there,”

Dean looked up at Sam. His heart was pounding and he felt so out of control. He had to go…he didn’t know where, but he knew the general direction. He could feel something pulling at him; something he was helpless to resist, try as he might.

“What’s happening to me?” he sounded a little hysterical, even to himself. He cleared his throat and tried to sound calmer. “It’s like a compulsion. I have to obey.”

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Sam said in a soothing voice. “But don’t fight it. Just…go with it.”

“Fuck,” Dean said. He made a concerted effort to relax and…yeah…he did feel better when he just went with the flow.

Sam helped Dean to pack everything up and then they got dressed as quickly as they could and headed out to the car.

“Where to?” Sam asked when he got behind the wheel.

Dean rubbed a hand over his chin. “That way,” he waved a hand in the general direction they needed to go.

They drove for an hour through the desert wasteland of what had once been Colorado, stopping only to pee and to refill the Impala’s gas tank from one of the jerry cans that Sam had in the back of the car. 

Dean was tense and not even the awesome cassette tapes could take the edge off.

There was nothing out here; no croats, no zombies, no creatures of any type. The world around them seemed dead; nothing but arid sandy dirt and the tarmac that the desert had almost swallowed. Led Zeppelin couldn’t make Dean feel calm and nor could Metallica, no matter how much Dean hummed along with the tunes.

Sam, beside him, was starting to look nervous, his eyes darting to the roadside as he gripped the steering wheel tightly and shifted in his seat.

“Left! Left!” Dean shouted, pointing toward the remnants of an old town that he could see in the distance.

“Not a good idea,” Sam said. “I can sense a lot of freaks over that way.”

“Turn! Fuck, Sam. Turn now! We have to go that way!”

The sense that was driving Dean forward was going haywire and Dean was barely restraining himself from opening the car door and leaping out.

One look at him had Sam cursing quietly and spinning the steering wheel hard left, heading for the derelict collection of buildings in the distance.

An old wooden sign told them that they’d reached the Julesburg City limits. A little way behind the sign there were several rusting grain silos and a white grain elevator with a big dark red stain splashed down its side.

“Ugh,” Dean shuddered. “Do we even wanna know?”

“Probably not,” Sam said.

Up ahead he could see half a dozen people—or at least people-shaped creatures—milling about in front of a red brick building on the corner of the main road and a side street.

The people turned as one (so probably not people) and then a whole bunch more of then surged from the side street and they all ran at the car.

“Oh shit,” said Dean.

Sam fumbled in the box of cassette tapes for the _Hallelujah Chorus_. He punched it in and turned the volume right up.

_“Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah!”_ burst from the speakers and Dean swore again and covered his ears.

Sam wound down his window and gestured to Dean to do the same.

Ahead of them croats fell to the ground, clutching at their ears and convulsing.

“Neat trick,” Dean said. “Why the Hell didn’t _we_ know that worked?”

Beside him Sam seemed to preen a little at his words.

With the croats down, Sam stopped the car and got out. He took a grenade out of the weapons cache in the trunk and lobbed it into the writhing mass of prostrate freaks.

The resulting explosion rocked the car and Dean glared at Sam.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. “Baby’s got blood and chunks of flesh all over her hood now.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Baby, Dean? Really?”

“So?” Dean raised his chin mulishly. “Castiel said it’s what I call her in the future and,” he shrugged. “I dunno, it feels right.”

Sam snickered. “Yeah, okay. Just let me know if the two of you ever need some alone time.”

Dean couldn’t help the grin that stole across his face at the easy banter.

“Shut up, Bitch,” he said fondly.

“Jerk,” Sam replied with a huge, dimpled smile.

Sam drove around the pile of dead and dying croats and found that there were a dozen more standing guard outside the red brick building—Ye Olde Antique Store according to the signage.

“Ready?” Sam said.

Dean nodded and together, exactly in sync, they opened their car doors, stepped out of the car, drew their guns (a Taurus for Sam and a Colt for Dean) and began to fire.

Only four of the freaks made it as far as the Impala and they all rushed Sam which gave Dean ample opportunity to pull out his knife and stab two of them in the back while Sam grappled with the one that reached him first. The other one turned on Dean and got a knife to the gut for her troubles and Sam managed to break his attacker’s neck.

“Nice moves,” Sam said to Dean.

Dean shrugged. “Not my first rodeo. I’ve seen my fair share of Vanquishings.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “That’s a fancy word for a Hunt.”

Dean actually agreed, so he just nodded and half-shrugged. “Whatever it is I need to find, it’s in there,” he nodded toward the antique store.

Through the darkly opaque windows they could see figures moving about and they could hear the occasional small explosion too.

Guns held at the ready, Sam and Dean crept up to the door. They stood one on either side of it and Sam counted them down quietly. On three, they burst in and almost tripped over a heap of dead bodies. There were just over a handful of croats still standing and they were facing the store’s counter and snarling. When Sam and Dean burst in they didn’t even turn around, which made it pretty easy for Sam and Dean to pick them off.

“Hello?” Dean called out. “Anybody behind the counter? You’re safe now.”

“I don’t believe it,” said a familiar voice. “Preacher Winchester?”

 Rowena MacLeod stood up from behind the counter and Dean’s jaw dropped.

“Rowena?”

Rowena glowered at him and raised a suspiciously shimmering hand, “Why are you here?”

Dean held his own hands up in supplication. “I’m not after you,” he said. “I was led here. There’s something here that I need to get to and…it’s behind the counter.”

Rowena, of course, asked him why he needed to get to it, so Dean introduced Sam and together, they went through the whole story that had led them to this point.

Rowena became less tense as the story progressed and by the end of it, not only had she stopped generating the energy to hurl a fireball at him, she was looking positively delighted.

“I told you that you had power, lad,” she said gleefully.

 She turned to Sam. “And you, Hunter, are you gonae try to kill me?”

Sm shook his head. “I can sense your power, Rowena, and you’re Natural Born, not a Borrower. So long as you’re not using your abilities to kill people, Hunters have no quarrel with you.”

Rowena stared down her nose at him for a long while and then nodded.

“Okay, kids, you can come out now.”

Another red-haired woman and a young Asian man stood up.

The pendant around Dean’s neck glowed brightly and pointed toward the man, who made a _meep_ noise and looked at Rowena with fear-filled eyes.

“Interesting,” Rowena said. “Sam, Dean, these are my friends Charlie and Kevin.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “I just have to,” he held his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender once more and walked slowly toward Kevin.

He reached out and put his hands on Kevin’s shoulders and both of their eyes shone with bright white light.

“What’s happening?” Charlie said, her voice high and nervous.

The light died away and both Dean and Kevin were smiling.

“It’s okay,” Kevin said to Charlie. “Dean is The Righteous Man. God sent him to protect me. By rights, I should’ve had an Archangel, but God doesn’t trust them anymore.”

“And Kevin here is a Prophet of the Lord,” Dean said clapping the young man on the shoulder and turning toward Sam. “God wants him to find the Angel and Demon Tablets, if I’ve translated the God-talk that just downloaded into my brain correctly,” he turned back to Kevin, “Do you have any idea where they are?”

Kevin nodded. “I mean, sort of? I’m being driven toward them like you were driven to me, but I couldn’t, like, give you the address or anything.”

“Uh, guys?” Sam interrupted. “We have to go. I can feel something old and evil homing in on us.”

Rowena’s eyes went blank for a moment. “Dear God,” she said. “What is that?”

Sam just shook his head and urged everybody to leave as quickly as possible.

Kevin balked at the idea of getting into a car, because cars were banned and it took Rowena reminding him that he’d been banished to the Badlands where the laws didn’t apply and that something ancient and evil was on its way, possibly to eat him, before he would agree to get in.

The back of the Impala was a tight squeeze for Rowena, Charlie, Kevin and their respective packs and bags of belongings. Sam had to move the jerry cans of gasoline to the trunk and he had to dump the cooler altogether and just distribute the remaining bottles of iced tea wherever they would fit.

They were on their way quickly, none-the-less, but they’d barely driven past all the croat bodies when a big winged creature landed on the road in front of them, causing Sam to slam on the brakes. The creature looked like a rotting, desiccated human corpse, but was twice the size of an average human and had long fingers and toes with talons, and giant, ragged bat wings.

“Oh!” Rowena breathed. “Is that an Aswang?”

“I think so,” Sam answered. “I won’t know for sure until we see whether or not it has a proboscis-style tongue. According to the Lore they can suck a…”

“Don’t care,” Dean cut Sam off. “How do we kill it?”

“Spoken like a true _naayéé neizghání_ ,” Sam muttered, shaking his head and giving Dean a look that was deeply disapproving.  “According to the Lore,” he said pointedly, “they can be killed by a whip made from a stingray’s tail.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you have one in the trunk, by any chance do you?”

Sam shook his head. “But, uh, decapitation works on most things.”

“ _Most_ things?” Charlie squeaked from the back seat. “Only _most_ things?”

“Yeah,” Sam turned to face Charlie. “There are some creatures—”

“Sam!” Dean growled. “Less talking, more killing the monster.”

The creature took a few steps forward and shrieked, its long tube-shaped tongue striking out toward them. Dean thought the end of the tongue looked a little like a starfish.

“Well that’s horrible,” he said matter-of-factly. “Are they venomous?”

“Definitely an Aswang,” Sam said. “And yeah, they are. So everybody needs to stay out of reach of that tongue.”

“Alrighty,” Dean said brightly. “Let’s do this. Rowena? Can you create some sort of a distraction?”

“Oh yes,” the Witch nodded her head. “It’s what I do best.”

A moment later a projection of her appeared on the road a little way from where the Aswang was standing. The projection proceeded to throw magical exploding fire balls at the Aswang, which screeched and backed off a few steps.

Dean was impressed and he told Rowena so. She gave him a small smile and preened a little before turning her attention back to the Aswang, which was edging forward slowly, a little like a cat stalking prey. It lashed out toward her with its tongue and seemed confused when it didn’t make contact with anything.

Dean and Sam got out of the car while the beast was distracted. Dean strapped on his katana and Sam took a wicked looking saber out of the Impala’s trunk. Dean crept toward the Aswang, coming up on its near side, while Sam took the longer route, so that he could sneak up behind it. The Aswang, though, seemed to either hear Sam or sense him coming. With a bellow of rage, it turned its back on the Rowena projection and lunged at Sam, side-swiping him and knocking him to the ground. Sam’s head hit the ground with a sickening thud and he didn’t move, just lay prone on the ground, utterly still.

“No!” Dean shouted, launching himself at the creature before it could strike at Sam with its tongue.

The Aswang roared and turned on Dean, raking its claws down the side of his leg. Dean cried out and tried to hobble backward, as his thigh was seared with agony.

“Sonofabitch!” And of course it would be his bad leg that got clawed up too.

The Aswang’s tongue shot out and Dean swung his katana instinctively, severing the tongue.

The Aswang lost its mind, shrieking in a way that set Dean’s teeth on edge and made him shudder. It backhanded him and sent him flying and then advanced on him, snarling. Dean sat up and readied his sword and then Charlie ran in between him and the Aswang and shot it with a shotgun filled with rock salt pellets. The Aswang reared back in obvious pain and looked uncertainly from her to Dean and then back at Sam. Rowena moved her projection closer and threw another fireball at it. The Aswang roared again and charged at Charlie. Dean scrambled to his feet and pushed her out the way, thrusting his katana and burying it in the Aswang’s gut. It snarled and sank its claws into his leg again, causing Dean to swear out loud, sweat pouring down his face, but he kept twisting his sword, none-the-less.

In the distance he saw a disoriented Sam stagger to his feet and lurch forward unsteadily, his saber at the ready. The Aswang turned, its claws ripping out of Dean’s thigh and causing him to collapse, but it didn’t have time to mount any kind of real defense before Sam was swinging his saber and severing the Aswang’s head.

As soon as the creature was down, Sam and Charlie salted and burned its body and then Sam was at Dean’s side.

“Shit, this is not good,” he took off his shirt and tied it tightly around Dean’s thigh, where the blood had already seeped darkly through the denim of his jeans.

“I’ve had worse,” Dean said.

Sam didn’t look quite as reassured by this as Dean had hoped; in fact it seemed to ratchet up his concern.

“What about you?” Dean tried to change the subject. “That was quite some blow to the head you took.”

“I’ve had worse,” Sam fired Dean’s own words back at him. “It’s not the first time I’ve been knocked out in a fight, not by a long shot.”

Okay, Sam may have had a point. That was not reassuring to hear. Not at all.

“We should get moving,” Sam said, “who knows what might’ve heard the Aswang shrieking and be on its way. I’ll take a proper look at your leg when we’re somewhere safe.”

He gave Dean a hand to get to his feet, offered him his shoulder and helped the Preacher limp back toward the car.

“Nice moves, Charlie,” Dean panted. “You did good.”

Charlie grinned. “I totally saved your ass,” she said. “And then you saved mine, so I guess we’re even.”

Sam helped Dean manoeuvre into the front passenger seat, situating him on his right side so that the pressure was off his left leg. It was awkward and not entirely comfortable, but it was better than having to bear any weight on his bad leg.

Kevin was hyperventilating in the back seat of the Impala. “How is this my life?” he said, in between gasps. “I was perfectly happy living in Union Pier. My mom and I had little shack, right on the edge of the lake. The town was doing okay, my cello playing was exceptional, and my solar panels were going to revolutionize our energy technologies. And then I’m summoned by the town council and banished! The Mayor said my solar panels were the work of the devil,” Kevin frowned. “But I think he probably just liked having control of the only methane gas generator in town.”

“It’s alright, Dearie,” Rowena patted the back of Kevin’s hand. “The small-minded have always resented geniuses like us.”

She looked at Dean when she spoke and he only refrained from rolling his eyes at her because his bum leg was aching something fierce.

“So Kevin,” Sam spoke up as he started the engine and got the car moving. “I know you’re probably in a hurry to get to wherever you’ve gotta go, but I think we need to take the rest of the day to regroup; give Dean a chance to recuperate a little, maybe see if we can get a better idea where we’re heading ? Is that okay with you?”     

“You’re asking me?” Kevin sounded surprised.

“You’re the Prophet, Kevin,” Sam said soothingly. “We’re just here to help.”

“You’re like his knights in shining armor!” Charlie said.

Her eyes darted to Dean. “Not that I know much about that. Because reading is a Black Art. And not something that I do.”

“I drove here in a _car_ ,” Dean said. “I’m working with a Hunter. I’m helping a Prophet of the Lord to hide from the Angels. If my boss asked me what I was doing right now I’d say some pretty heretical things. I ain’t in any position to judge anyone. Besides, reading’s cool. I think everyone should be allowed to do it. And I’ve certainly read more than one banned book in my time.”

Charlie beamed at him. “Have you read the Lord of the Rings?” she asked.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. And The Hobbit.”

“Omigod!” Charlie bounced in her seat. “We’re totally on an Unexpected Journey. Just like Bilbo! And maybe we’ll even have to go to Modor, like Frodo and Sam!”

“So Kevin,” Sam interrupted Charlie before she could get too carried away. “Do we have time for a layover?”

Kevin thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah. So long as we don’t stop for more than one night, we should be good.”

Over the course of the drive to Sterling, they learned that Charlie had run away from an arranged… _marriage_ would perhaps be too kind a word for it.

She was originally from a little town called Onida, which was in the Borderlands, further north. The town wasn’t ever visited by Angels and didn’t have any Preachers and the Town Council followed the old Biblical teachings.

“So the fact that I’m into chicks,” Charlie said, “wasn’t something I could admit to.”

Being a Bordertown, they experienced fairly frequent incursions from Scavenger groups and when the leader of one such group demanded that Charlie be given to him in return for his group stopping its raids on the town, the Town Council agreed. Charlie and her parents didn’t, so overnight they packed their things and fled.

They changed their names and tried to settle in another nearby town, but the Scavengers were looking for them and they had to flee again. For a while they lived a nomadic existence, camping and moving on every few days, but eventually they settled in a tiny derelict ghost town called—according to the sign on the dilapidated general store—Okobojo. There were no other inhabitants in the town and there wasn’t much there, but there were a few fully furnished cabins and Charlie and her parents settled into one of them. They spent a happy eight months there and then the Scavengers caught up with them. They killed Charlie’s parents and they took her.

Charlie’s eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. “The girl I was died along with my parents,” she said, “and that’s why I still choose to go by the name that I chose for myself when we fled.”

Charlie didn’t know exactly how long she’d spent enslaved to the Scavenger leader—Vernon, Charlie spat with distaste—but she bided her time and earned his trust until she was able to escape. She got help from a nearby band of Sioux and then made her way into the Badlands.

“I was on my own for a long time,” Charlie said. “Just surviving. And then about two weeks ago I met Rowena.”

Sam glanced at her in the rear view mirror. “So are you two…?”

Rowena shook her head. “ _I’m_ not ‘into chicks’,” she mimicked Charlie’s phrase, complete with air quotes. “To each their own. I don’t judge. But I definitely prefer a big, broad sexy man myself,” she eyed Sam appreciatively as she spoke. “Charlie is like the daughter I never had.”

Dean snorted. “You’re not old enough to have a daughter her age.”

Rowena smirked at him. “Appearances can be deceiving, laddie.”

”So _anyway_ ,” Charlie got the conversation back on track, “then we found Kevin. He was on top of a building, surrounded by zombies. We were trying to figure out if we could get around them without them noticing and then, in the middle of this clear blue sky there was a massive lightning strike.”

“It was so bright we had to look away,” Rowena added. “And when we looked back all the zombies were dead and Kevin was floating in the air with his hair standing on end and his eyes…glowing.”

“I don’t remember that part,” Kevin said. “I think I must’ve been unconscious.”

Rowena explained that she’d seen a Prophet triggered once before, many, many years ago, and the last thing she wanted was a host of Angels descending, so she cast a spell to hide Kevin from Angels. And then cast one on Charlie too as an afterthought. She herself was already hidden from them.

“Kevin insisted he had to get some tablets that God wanted,” Charlie said. “We figured we’d go with him. We thought…if God wants him to do something, then God’s probably going to protect him right?”

“Except a day later, we’re holed up in some abandoned town desperately fighting off a horde of croats,” Rowena said with a sniff. She looked up at the sky. “Some protector you are!”

“He did send us Sam and Dean,” Charlie pointed out.

Rowena looked down her nose at Dean and then sniffed with disdain. “And that’s excellent,” she said. “Now the big strong men can take on the job of walking right into danger and we can go back to keeping ourselves safe from the horrors of this God-forsaken world!”

“Except God hasn’t forsaken us,” Sam said gently. “God sent us Kevin. And God sent you into Kevin’s path to hide him from the Angels. And he sent us to protect Kevin on his journey.”

“Good luck with that,” Rowena said.

“Rowena we need you,” Sam said, his voice filled with honesty and compassion. “All of us here are God’s handpicked team and if we work together, we’ve got a chance to save the world; to save humanity and to make the world that rises out of the ashes of this one a better place.”

“Better never means better for everyone,” Rowena said sourly.

“But it can do,” Sam said. “If we learn to value cooperation; if we learn to live in partnership with each other and with the planet; if we learn to respect balance and harmony instead of power and domination, then the world really can be a better place for everyone.”

Rowena met Dean’s eyes and he tried not to look too cynical. He knew that Sam genuinely believed what he was saying, but Dean had spent his whole life being taught that human nature was inherently selfish and sinful. Sam and his people didn’t think that was the case. They thought people were capable of being better. Dean desperately wanted to believe them.

“What do you say?” Dean looked at each of the trio in the backseat in turn. “Team Free Will. We’ll change our fates. We’ll change the fate of the world. Are you with us?”

“All for one and one for all!” Charlie crowed. “I loved The Three Musketeers!”

“I’m God’s puppet. I don’t really have a choice,” Kevin said glumly. “But if we can create a world where people are free to learn to read and write, where I can play my cello again, and maybe even get to be Mayor somewhere, then it’s better than what I’ve got now.”

“I suppose I’ll tag along for now,” Rowena said with a sigh.

It wasn’t the most enthusiastic set of pledges Dean had ever heard, but he’d take it.

 

 

They stopped at St Antony’s Catholic Church in Sterling again. Sam told Rowena, Charlie and Kevin to set themselves up near the altar and he and Dean went out the back to the vestry.

“Take your pants off,” Sam said, producing his First Aid Kit.

“You should at least buy me dinner first,” Dean quipped.

Sam rolled his eyes. “I told you I was gonna need to check your leg.”

“Its fine, Sammy, just a scratch,” Dean frowned at the way ‘Sammy’ had just slipped out again. And at how right it felt.

Sam was glowering. “It’s a scratch from an Aswang, Dean. Do you know where its claws have been? You could get an infection, supernatural or otherwise. I need to treat it. Pants off. Now.”

“You’re bossy,” Dean grumbled as he took off his pants. Secretly he was quietly pleased that Sam wanted to look after him as much as he wanted to look after Sam.

He leaned against the desk and let Sam do his thing. Truth be told, the claw marks on Dean’s thigh were quite a bit more than superficial.  Sam washed his leg with Holy Water and then plastered on some anti-septic.

“You’re gonna need stitches,” Sam said, fishing a needle and some old school dental floss out of the First Aid Kit. “Lay down on the desk.”

Dean did as he was told and then swigged liberally from the flask of Hunter-brewed whiskey that Sam gave him. It was potent stuff and he was soon feeling pleasantly numb.

Being stitched up by Sam was another one of those things that felt _right_ and Dean couldn’t deny that watching those nimble, competent fingers do their thing gave him a tingly feeling that he didn’t like to examine too closely.

Dean lit himself a joint when Sam was finished and went and sat in the former Priest’s chair, with his leg up on his desk.

Sam, of course, had noticed the extensive old wounds on his leg and had very obviously not asked him about them. Dean sighed.

“Werewolf,” he said.

He explained succinctly what had happened and that the wound had been cauterized with silver.

Sam was quick on the uptake. He quickly surmised that Dean was lacing his marijuana joints with wolfs bane for pain relief and the few words he did say, as well as all the things he _didn’t_ say, showed Dean that he fully appreciated just how agonizing the full moon must be for Dean.

It was one of the things Dean had come to love, how quickly and easily he and Sam could communicate; how they could convey so much with so few words; how sometimes, not even words were required. The set of Sam’s shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way his brow furrowed, all these things could express so much to Dean without Sam ever having to open his mouth. And somehow, Sam could just look at Dean, get past his tough outer layers and see right into the squishy center. It was both disconcerting and completely wonderful.

“Full moon in a coupla weeks,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

And Dean knew he didn’t have to tell Sam how worried he was about it. How scared he was that his vulnerability would put the team in danger; one look at Sam’s face told him that the Hunter knew exactly how Dean felt. He was supposed to be the Prophet’s protector, not a millstone around his neck.

Sam nodded; his expression grave. “I’m gonna go talk to Rowena, see if there’s anything she can do to speed up your healing.”

Sam found Rowena sitting on the front steps of the church, idly watching the dozen or so croats that were meandering around on the road, unable to set foot on the consecrated ground.

“I never thought the world would come to this,” she said with a sigh as Sam sat down beside her. “I’m over three hundred years old, you know. I’ve seen…a lot in my time, but this? This I did’nae see coming.”

Sam swallowed. A Natural Born Witch that old would be very powerful. Dean knew that Rowena could conjure fireballs; he knew that she could sense a monster’s _biníłchʼi_ if it were close enough. But a Natural Born Witch this old probably had skills and talents that Sam couldn’t even begin to imagine. There was even a chance she could _See_ auras.

“Relax, Sam,” Rowena said. “I won’t tell him.”

Sam’s stomach flip-flopped in fear. “Tell who what?” he stammered.

Rowena leaned in close and fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. “I won’t tell Dean that he’s part Hunter. I won’t tell him that you’re soulmates.”

Sam’s eyes widened. Soulmates?  She didn’t know about the brother thing and that was a relief. But soulmates? Could brothers even be soulmates? What did that even mean?

“You think we’re destined to be a couple?” he ventured.

Rowena nodded. “Your auras are completely intertwined. The only times I ever see that is with soulmates. So relax, laddie. There might be some bumps in the road, but you’re destined to be together.”

Sure, Sam thought to himself, but _together_ in what capacity?

“Now,” Rowena patted Sam on the knee. “Tell me what you need from me?”

Sam asked her what her healing skill was like, because they really needed to get back on the road as quickly as possible. Rowena was delighted that Sam was asking for her help.

“There’s so much prejudice against Witches,” she told him as she went through her pack, looking for ingredients. “It’s nice to meet people who can appreciate my skills without also hating me for them. Damn. I’m out of Dragons’ Blood. I don’t suppose you have any?”

Dragons’ Blood was a powerful spell ingredient and it was absolutely illegal for anyone except a Preacher to be in possession of it.

Sam fetched some from the trunk of the car.

“Let’s not tell Dean about this,” he said. “He’s pretty on board with the rebellion at this point, but every now and then he has a _Preacher_ moment.”

 

 

By the following morning, the claw marks on Dean’s leg were practically healed and they were able to continue their journey.

Kevin led them south west, directing Sam onto the I-76, and when it became clear that Kevin planned to lead them right through Denver, Sam pulled over.

“Kevin, do you have any idea where we’re going? Because we can’t go through Denver. It’s a Hot Zone.”

Kevin rubbed at his forehead. “Uh, I really don’t know. But, uh, west, I guess. I get a…a kind of tingly feeling when we’re going the right way and everything sort of…burns if we’re going the wrong way.”

In the front passenger seat Dean sighed, tipping his head back and steepling his hands in prayer. “Now’d be a real good time to lay the final destination on us,” he said to the ceiling of the car.

Kevin shrugged. “I don’t know, man.”

“I was talking to God,”

Sam could see Kevin’s sceptical expression in the rear view mirror.

Dean shrugged. “What? It worked before. Another giant arrow would be _really helpful_ about now.”

Sam nodded. “Okay, look, Kevin, how about we go around Denver and then take one of the freeways that’s heading west, but, uh, try to avoid any of the bigger towns if we can.” 

Kevin nodded. “Okay. I think…I think that should be okay.”

Before they got into Denver-proper, Sam turned off onto a smaller freeway and they skirted past what had once been the Denver International Airport and made their way west.

Kevin was tense and breathing heavily, but he didn’t start spouting off about having to change the route or anything, so Sam counted it a win.

They skirted past Lone Tree and Castle Pines and made it through Castle Rock and Monument without any drama.

Every time they approached a new town, Sam reached out with his psychic abilities to see what he could sense, and so far they’d been lucky.  He did the same as they approached Colorado Springs and although he sensed a few supernatural entities in the vicinity it didn’t seem like anything they couldn’t handle.

The town, as they drove through, was quiet. Eerily so. It seemed…dead. A ghost town. Colorado Springs had been a reasonable size back in the day and Sam was surprised that there weren’t more croats. Pleased. But surprised none-the-less.

They were through the town and heading toward Fountain when Sam felt Dean stiffen beside him.

“What the Hell?” Dean muttered.

Sam turned to look at him and his eyes widened as he saw hundreds of…people…running at them from the dusty vacant land beside the freeway.

“Are those…army uniforms?” Dean said disbelievingly.

“Airforce,” Rowena corrected.

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Rowena’s expression was far too innocent to be true. “I may have dated an airman or two in my day.”

Whatever they were, they were fast. And they were closing in.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Dean said.

Sam couldn’t help but agree.

“Omigod!” Rowena said, her face pressed against the side window of the car. “Are those… _vampires_? What’s wrong with them? Why do their faces look like that?”

“Starvation,” Dean said. “They’ve outstripped their food source and now they’re insane with hunger.”

“Oh shit,” Charlie said. “This is _not_ good. This is very bad. Very bad. What would Hermione do?”                           

Kevin meanwhile was hyperventilating.

“Breathe, Kevin,” Dean said. “Step on it, Sam.”

Sam stepped on it, taking the Impala to her top speed of 130mph.

Up ahead a handful or so of the fastest vampires poured onto the freeway and ran straight at them.

“Fuck!” Dean swore. “Slow down! If we hit ‘em at this speed we’re gonna crash and burn.”

They were doing forty when they hit the vamps. Sam was able to keep control of the car, and while most of the vampires were knocked down and left in the Impala’s wake, lying prone on the road, a couple were able to run up over the hood and onto the car, causing both Charlie and Kevin to scream.

Charlie screamed again when one of the vamps leaned down from the car’s roof and banged his head against the window beside her, trying to smash it open.

“Sonofabitch!” Dean took his knife out and twisted toward the back seat. “Rowena? Can you do anything?”

Rowena sat pensively for a moment and then the vamp bashed its head against the window again and snarled, showing its vicious fangs and making Charlie sob.

Rowena lunged forward abruptly, put one hand on top of Sam’s head and closed her eyes.

Sam could feel her leaching power from him and even though his instinctive response was to slam up his shields, he didn’t, instead allowing Rowena free access to his psychic energy.

Sam could feel Rowena gathering strength, feel her charging herself up.

As the vamp cracked the window beside Charlie, Rowena sat back and threw her hands upward.

“ _Inluceo_!” she shouted.  

There was a flash of bright white light and Sam had to close his eyes, gripping the steering wheel tightly and trying to keep the car steady as there was a bump and a thud and then the car ran over something and fishtailed ever so slightly down the road.

When Sam opened his eyes again, all the vamps in the nearby vicinity were down, red raw at best and those who’d been closest were clawing at burned flesh and writhing in agony.

Sam planted his foot again and nobody said a word until they were coming up on Pueblo. Rowena was white-faced and breathing hard, slumped against the back seat.

“That was fucking awesome,” Dean said. “You are something else, Rowena McLeod.”

The Witch looked wiped, but the smile she gave Dean was a genuine one.

“We should stop in Santa Fe,” Sam said. “It’ll be dark soon and we need to regroup.”

“Is that wise?” Rowena asked. “Wasn’t Santa Fe a capital city back in the day? Shouldn’t it be crawling with nasties?”

Sam explained that it wasn’t. He knew the area, it wasn’t far from home, and for a moment he genuinely considered detouring to Dinétah, maybe even picking up a posse of Hunters and Diné warriors to help them with the journey. But it felt wrong. Sam’s sixth sense was telling him that he couldn’t go home yet; the time wasn’t right. So he explained to Rowena and the others that Santa Fe was pretty much monster free and was used frequently by Hunters as a stopping point.

“Makes sense, I guess,” Dean said.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Santa Fe,” Dean clarified. “It means _Holy Faith_ in Spanish. Whatever it is that causes Sanctuary, maybe the whole town’s got it?”

Just to be extra safe they decided to stay the night in The Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi.

It wasn’t quite dark yet, so Sam and Dean went and did a little foraging, raiding supermarkets, mini-marts and gas stations and collecting as many bottles of water and soda and as many tins of food as they could find; which wasn’t many. They also syphoned gas from a dozen abandoned cars and got enough to fill up a couple of their jerry cans.

“We need to know where we’re going,” Dean said, apropos of nothing. “Following Kevin’s ‘buzzing feeling’” he made air quotes, “it doesn’t allow for planning. We can’t just keep stumbling forward blindly.”

Sam nodded. “I hear you. Kevin keeps saying go west, but, uh, there’s some pretty inhospitable places out west. You’re right. We need to be able to plan.”

Sam spent the rest of their foraging time thinking about it and when they got back to the Basilica, he took a map of America out of the Impala’s glove box and then asked Dean if he could borrow the Bullman pendant.

Dean took the necklace off and handed it to Sam, taking the opportunity to steal a quick, chaste kiss when the Hunter leaned in close.

“What are you gonna do with it?” Dean asked.

“Come and I’ll show you,” Sam replied.

They sought out Rowena, who was resting in La Conquistadora Chapel with Charlie and Kevin. Sam told them that he wanted to see if they could figure out where Kevin needed to go. He explained his theory that if he and Rowena used the pendant that God had used to connect the Righteous Man with the Prophet and if they combined their psychic energy, then maybe they’d be able to get a fix on where they were going.

Rowena agreed to try so Sam spread the map out on a table that probably used to house votive candles back in the day and together the two of them asked to be shown where the Prophet needed to go, while Charlie, Kevin and Dean watched on with bated breath.

The pendant trembled for a long moment and then shot out and pointed at Los Angeles.

“The City of Angels,” Rowena said. “Well that makes sense, I suppose,” she looked up at Sam and frowned. “What? Why are you looking so horrified?”

Sam took a deep breath. “Because by all accounts, Los Angeles is a seething cesspit of zombies, ghouls, croats and every other evil thing you ever heard of.”

“In other words,” Charlie said shakily, “we really are going to Mordor.”


	7. Chapter Six

_Way back in 1861, on a battlefield in what was then Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, an American Elder, with a habit of wearing funny hats, made a speech. He thought that no one would ever remember the speech, but that people would remember the sacrifices made on that battlefield. He was partly right. The speech actually ended up being really famous, but did history remember the sacrifices? Yes and no. People remembered what they wanted to remember. They remembered what suited the political agenda of the day. What they forgot was perhaps the most important part of the speech; the Elder’s plea that the living—and future generations—should dedicate themselves to the great task that still remained before them. Specifically, the Elder asked—and I’m paraphrasing here—that the survivors of the battle should resolve that the dead should not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, should have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, should not perish from the earth. Well, things didn’t go quite the way the Elder planned. Not only did their system of government perish, humanity came perilously close to perishing too. It is often said that those who forget their history are doomed to repeat it. As we stand here today, at The Getty Museum Memorial, the last resting place of an entire Garrison’s worth of Angelic vessels, I can do no more than that Elder of days gone by. I can only plead with you all, that we take the opportunity we have been given to give birth to a new world of freedom and that this time we truly learn from the mistakes of the past. **Getty Museum Memorial Address, 2036, Dean Winchester**_

 

Team Free Will may have been untrackable to Angels, but if they were ever in the vicinity of any freaks, monsters or demonic entities, they seemed to attract their attention.

Ever since he’d given Dean the amulet, Sam could feel the psychic energy radiating off him. Kevin was similarly psychically charged and both Sam and Rowena gave off a certain amount of psychic energy too. Maybe the Angels couldn’t track them, but if they ever came close, Sam was pretty sure they’d be able to _detect_ them, just like these goddamn zombies could.

Sam severed the head of another zombie and watched as its body puddled into a disgusting, stinking goo at his feet.

Rowena was standing on the roof of an abandoned pick-up truck hurling her magical exploding fireballs at the heads of zombies, Charlie was wielding a scimitar, Kevin a machete and Dean…Dean was a thing of beauty; ducking, weaving and whirling like a tornado, decapitating zombies right, left and center with his katana. The fact that Sam was half-hard just at the sight of Dean in action was very distracting.  

When the last zombie head rolled, Dean finally looked up, breathing hard. He met Sam’s eyes across the pile of liquefying corpses, face flushed and blood-spattered, high on the adrenalin of a good Hunt. Slowly, his expression became heated; sexually charged; and Sam wasn’t sure that he had the strength to keep turning him down.

The injury to Dean’s leg; the presence of the others; the near constant monster-battling they’d been engaged in as their journey took them into the pre-apocalypse city areas; these were all things he’d used to keep Dean’s obvious lust at bay. Of course, he could’ve just told the Preacher that they were brothers, but Sam was pretty sure he’d left it too late to reveal that fun fact without Dean being completely pissed. After all, he’d made no secret of the fact that he was attracted to Sam.

Sibling incest wasn’t as taboo among Hunters as it was among the _Gazhe_ — so long as there were no babies involved, consensual sex and romantic love between siblings wasn’t really a problem. Sam still had a pretty good idea, though, that Dean’s reaction to learning that he’d been lusting after his younger brother, would probably be bad.

“Let’s take care of these bodies,” Dean said.

By the time they’d salted and burned all the remains it was time to find somewhere safe to bed down for the night. Sanctuary was becoming harder and harder to find the closer they got to Los Angeles and lately they’d taken to finding the most easily defensible position they could, warding it as best they could, and taking it in turns to keep watch.

Tonight they set themselves up in a bunch of offices above a Chinese restaurant, Laundromat and Pawn Brokers. Rowena set some spells around it and Sam and Dean drew wards on all the walls.

When they’d still been relatively close to the Borderlands, they had been able to hunt for game and they hadn’t had to rely too much on their canned provisions. Now, the only animals they saw with any kind of regularity were rats, packs of vicious stray dogs, and pigeons.

Sam heated up some canned hotdogs and Dean and Charlie went and foraged downstairs in the Chinese restaurant, coming back upstairs with several cans of baby corn and lychees, which they used to eke out their meager meal.

“Hey, Sam, can we talk?” Dean said after they’d finished eating.

His jaw was tight and his expression serious and Sam figured he had some logistical concerns about the rest of their journey. Or at least he was assuming that until they were leaving the room to go into one of the other offices and he saw Charlie give Dean a surreptitious _thumbs up_. 

The office down the hall used to belong to McKay and Son Solicitors according to the nameplate on the frosted glass door and Sam had no sooner shut that door behind him than Dean was shoving him up against it, his hands fisted in Sam’s shirt and his thigh between Sam’s legs.

Sam let out a little oomph noise as his back hit the door and then Dean was kissing him, his tongue ruthlessly plundering his mouth. Sam was helpless to do anything but respond. It was good—so good—and Sam was instantly hard. He groaned against Dean’s lips and began to grind against Dean’s thigh. He could feel the tip of his dick getting wet inside his shorts.

Eventually, Dean pulled back and studied Sam closely, his eyes bright with desire, but intense and serious as well.

“Tell me you want this too?” he said.

Sam took a deep shuddering breath. “I do,” he said, “but there are things you don’t know.”

Dean frowned. “So tell me.”

Sam bit at his lip.

“What is it, Sam?”

Sam drew a deep breath. He could do this. He could tell Dean the truth.

“You’re…my…clan.”

God he was a coward.

Dean’s frown deepened.  “Your clan?”

Sam nodded and began to spin an almost-truth. “My Hunter clan. You’re part Hunter, on your mother’s side—we keep track of our bloodlines,” Sam pulled his shirt up so that Dean could see his Clan tattoo. “See? It’s the same symbol as the one on your pendant. It’s our Clan totem.”

Dean grasped his pendant in his hand. “My mom gave me this,” he said.

Sam nodded. “It would’ve been important to her that you had some sort of connection to your heritage, even if she couldn’t be open about it. But, Dean…it was your mother’s Hunter blood that brought…what happened…to her door. That’s why your father hates Hunters.”

Dean stared at him. “So…I’m part Hunter,” he said slowly.

It wasn’t a question but Sam nodded as if it was.

Dean stared inwardly for a long moment and then looked up and met Sam’s eyes. “That actually…makes a lot of sense. My dad always hated it when I got a feeling about something; said instincts couldn’t be trusted,” he paused, lips pursed and expression thoughtful. “You know, I can always get magic to work,” he mused. “And I’ve always preferred a hands-on approach to gadgets. Hunter genes…that answers a lot of questions. But,” Dean’s brow creased again, “why does me being part Hunter mean we shouldn’t have sex? Is it taboo to screw around within your own Clan?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Hunters are pretty progressive when it comes to sex. There are hardly any taboos. Just, uh, nothing without fully informed consent and no making babies with family.”

Dean pulled a face and then stepped away from Sam. “I’m sorry,” he said formally. “I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that. That wasn’t cool.”

Sam squirmed slightly. “I, uh, actually liked that. And if we were together, I’d give you blanket consent to do that whenever you wanted to. But, uh, I don’t want us to ‘screw around’. You…me…it’s too important. We have to stop the Apocalypse. We can’t let anything derail that.”

Dean looked disappointed, but he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I probably need some time anyway, to get my head around the whole Hunter thing,” he gave Sam a friendly slap on the arm. “I’ll take first watch with Charlie.”

Sam watched him leave and cursed himself for yet again failing to come clean with his brother. He was just so scared of losing him.

 

 

The next day they were attacked by a lower-order Demon. It had tried to abduct Kevin, but thankfully it didn’t have the power to keep more than two of them subdued at a time. Between the five of them, they managed to get it bound in a Devil’s trap and then exorcised, but not before it had managed to taunt Dean.

“Some Righteous Man you are!” it hissed, “lusting after your brother.”

_“Ergo, draco maledicte,”_ Sam continued reciting the _Rituale_ _Romanum_ even though his heart was trying to implode.

Dean held up a hand and Sam paused.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked the Demon.

“Why don’t you ask your brother?” the Demon looked at Sam and laughed.

“Don’t listen to it,” Sam said. “Demons lie.”

The demon cackled. “And sometimes we tell the truth. Especially if we know it’ll mess with someone’s head.”

“ _Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire_ ,” Sam said.

The Demon moaned and writhed. “I’ll see you both in Hell!”

“… _te rogamus, audi nos_ ,” Dean finished the exorcism and the Demon poured out of the mouth of its host as it was forced back to Hell.

The host turned out to be a croat and it rushed at them the minute the Demon left it. Charlie stabbed it in the gut and Sam decapitated it.

“Nice moves, Grasshopper,” Dean said, ruffling Charlie’s hair.

“Uh, guys?” Kevin said. His voice sounded strained. “That Demon’s just gone back to Hell. Where it’s gonna tell everyone how it met the Prophet and The Righteous Man just outside of LA. We have to hurry.”

 

 

Los Angeles was a tangled mess of abandoned cars, destroyed buildings and collapsed freeways. They hadn’t managed to drive more than a few miles by the time night fell, so once again they found a defensible building, cleared it of zombies and warded it. They all slept huddled together, taking it in turns to keep watch, and they set out again as soon as it was light. 

It was slow going, having to constantly stop to clear the road, or when that wasn’t possible to find a workable detour, with Kevin guiding them on the direction they needed to go.

By mid-afternoon they’d come to an impasse. The road ahead was blocked by a traffic pile-up which included two overturned semi-trailers.  There was no way they were going to be able to clear enough space to get the Impala through.

“So we back track to the last exit and go around this section of Freeway,” Dean said impatiently.

Sam shook his head. “The areas either side of us are thick with croats and zombies. We go wading through those streets, we’ll be lucky to make it out alive.”

“So what then?” Charlie asked.

“Maybe if Sam and I work together we can generate enough magical power to make a big enough gap for the car,” Rowena suggested.

Dean nodded. “Okay. Do that.”

He, Charlie and Kevin stood guard in a semi-circle around Sam and Rowena while they did their thing. And they did manage to clear a bit of a path; just not enough of a one to get the Impala through. It also exhausted both of them, leaving Rowena pale and trembling and giving Sam a killer nose bleed.

“Let’s take a break,” Dean said, ushering everybody into the maze of car bodies so they’d be better hidden from onlookers.

He unpacked what was left of the hard crackers and passed around a bottle of iced tea. They were down to their last couple of bottles now and given that drinkable water was damn near impossible to come by in Los Angeles, what with all the freaks everywhere, Dean hoped they were going to find these Tablets soon.  Of course, finding the Tablets was one thing; getting back out of the city again afterwards, would be another thing entirely.  Dean just hoped that God had a plan, otherwise they were screwed.

He’d sat himself a little way away from the others so that he could keep watch and there was nothing stealthy about Sam’s approach, so Dean wasn’t surprised when the Hunter lowered himself onto the tarmac next to Dean.

“Hey,” Sam said.

“You feeling better?”

Sam nodded. “My nose’s stopped bleeding and everything. You’ve been quiet since yesterday. Are you…okay?”

“Peachy.”                                                                                  

“You seem…grumpy.”

Dean sighed. “I’m tired. And worried. It’s been a hell of a week and we don’t know what’s coming. What’s gonna happen when we find these Tablets? What do we do next?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “I guess we just have to have faith.”

Dean grimaced. “I’m a Preacher, from a long line of Preachers, but faith…it’s never come easy to me. According to the Angels, God ain’t around much, but we were left a plan that we’re meant to follow,” he shook his head. “I guess for a long time I’ve just looked at God as some kind of mysterious, absent parent who left us with a bunch of rules, but no real guidance, except follow the rules, even if they don’t make any sense in the context you’re in. Ah,” Dean rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m just tired, man.”

Sam was looking at him so earnestly, with so much empathy in his expression that Dean had to turn away from him.

“Dean?” Sam ventured tentatively. “About what that Demon said yesterday…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean cut him off. “Demons lie. I know that.”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “But…”

“Sam! Dean!” Charlie shouted. “Kevin just took off. His eyes suddenly lit up and he just…picked up his pack and started walking.”

“Goddammit, Kevin!” Dean scrambled to his feet and grabbed his pack. “Kevin!”

Behind him, he heard the others gathering their things. “Kevin, wait!”

But Kevin didn’t stop, not even when Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to haul him back around.

“I can’t stop,” he said. “I’m not allowed to stop. They’re close.”

“Okay, look. Give us a moment to get our shit together. We need weapons. And food and water. Just… Sam? I’m gonna stay with Kevin. You and the others pack everything we can carry and catch up to us. We’ll go slow. And I’ll leave Hunter trail signs like you showed me if we’re separated for too long, okay?”

Fortunately, Kevin was able to go slowly and Sam and the others were able to pack as much as they could carry reasonably quickly.

Dean already had a pistol strapped to one thigh and a dagger strapped to the other. When Sam returned he handed Dean his katana and scabbard and an AK-47 on a strap. Dean nodded his approval as he strapped both to his body. He and Kevin took point, with Rowena and Charlie in the middle and Sam bringing up the rear. They moved quietly, with their weapons at the ready and their eyes peeled for danger.

They’d just passed a twisted rusting sign that said it was four miles to the Santa Monica Pier when Kevin veered abruptly to the right.

“This way,” Kevin said. “Almost straight ahead.”

“I’m sensing a lot of freaks this way,” Sam murmured.

Dean had been cradling his AK-47 close to his chest. At Sam’s words he changed his grip, ready to bring it up and fire. They were walking down the middle of an old four lane freeway and the steep verges and the fencing meant they were fairly isolated from the city itself. It was eerily quiet, in a way they’d become used to as they travelled the more built-up areas of the Badlands, but every now and then they would hear shrieking or the thunderous noise of a lot of creatures running and the longer they walked, the more stressed Dean could feel Sam becoming.

“We’ve gotta go this way,” Kevin said, maybe an hour and a half later, indicating Exit 57.

Sam stopped walking completely. “No,” he said. “Going down there…it’d be suicide. That whole area’s a hot zone.”

“No choice,” Kevin said and started forward.

“Whoa!” Dean stepped in front of him. “We’re gonna go, okay? Let’s just take a minute to be smart about this. Do it safely.”

Kevin nodded. “Okay. Not stopping. Just…pausing.”

He massaged his temple. His eyes were glowing almost continuously now and Dean wasn’t even sure if he could still see, or if he was just blindly following a path laid out for him by God.

“Dean,” Sam came up beside him. “There is no way to do it safely,” he said in Dean’s ear. “The number of freaks I can feel out there? We’ll all be dead long before we make it to wherever Kevin’s taking us.”

Dean looked at Kevin who was champing at the bit and clearly having a job holding himself back.

“He’s gonna go, with or without us. Do you really think God’s gonna let him die?”

“I think God gave him us,” Sam said. “But we’re not up to this. We can’t…we can’t battle thousands of croats. We’re good, but we’re not that good.”

Dean bit at his lip and then nodded, once, briskly. “Okay, I’m calling Cas.”

He closed his eyes. “Dear Cas, who art God knows where, I pray to you to get your feathery ass down here. We’re in LA, on the 405 Freeway, just near exit 57.”

Sam choked back a laugh. “Seriously, Dean?”

Dean shrugged. “Just trying to deter any eavesdroppers.”

There was a rustling noise and Castiel appeared, causing Rowena and Charlie to yelp.

Kevin just turned to face Cas and said “Angel,” in the most neutral voice Dean had ever heard.

Castiel’s eyes widened. “The Prophet.”

“Sorry about the crappy prayer,” Dean said. “We need to get through a whole bunch of croats. Can you help?”

Cas tilted his head and then stepped toward Kevin. He put his hands on the Prophet’s head and for a brief moment, Cas’s eyes glowed a brilliant blue.

When he finally let go, Cas looked at Dean and nodded. “I have _Seen_ where the Prophet needs to go. I can take you all there.”

Castiel gathered them all to him, like a mother hen with her chicks, and then everything went dark, Dean felt like he was being turned inside out, and they were standing inside a large building with a lot of art hanging on the walls.

“Where are we?” Charlie asked, her voice filled with wonder.

“It’s an art gallery,” Rowena said.

“It’s an art museum,” Castiel corrected. “Follow Kevin.”

Dean had barely stopped feeling nauseated and Kevin was already half way across the giant hall. Dean hurried after him and heard the others trailing in his wake.

A sign on the wall read Greek Antiquities, with an arrow beside it. Kevin followed the arrow into a hall filled with big white statues of people, huge vases, and glass cases which housed smaller artefacts, such as coins, jewellery, cookware…and stone tablets. Kevin stopped before a case containing two rough chunks of stone. He used the butt of his gun to smash open the cabinet and then, reverently, he lifted one of the stone chunks.

“Huh,” Dean said. “I expected…more. That looks like a piece of caveman Lego.”

Kevin put the stone down. “I need a hammer.”

Charlie took a small hammer out of her back pack and handed it to him.

“What?” she said, off Dean’s incredulous look. “A girl’s gotta be prepared for anything in this world.”

Kevin hit the center of the stone chunk with the hammer and there was a loud clap of thunder. Everyone looked around nervously. Kevin hit the stone again and there was an even louder clap of thunder, along with a flash of lightning.

“That sound like somebody saying, _no, wait, stop_ to you?” Dean asked the room at large.

Nobody responded and Kevin hit the piece of stone again. The stone began to crumble and inside of it, was a smaller stone tablet, carved with a lot of very small, intricate symbols.

“That is Enochian,” Castiel said. “That is the Angel Tablet.”

Kevin squinted at it. “I…I can read it. It hurts a little…like trying to read wearing someone else’s glasses but…wow…there are instructions here on how to return the Host to Heaven and lock the Gates.”

“Seriously?” Sam said. “We could send all the Angels back upstairs and lock them in? That would be awesome,” he turned to Castiel, puppy dog eyes out in force. “No offense.”

“None taken,” said the Angel.

And then he straightened up and turned, on full alert.

Dean turned just in time to see two people materialize.

“Castiel,” said one of them. “You have found the Prophet. Good work.”

“Hello, Hester,” Castiel said. “Inias.”

Dean slid slowly in front of Kevin and Hester turned to glower at him.

“Step away from the Prophet,” she said.

“I can’t do that,” Dean said. “God gave me the job of protecting him.”

“And you have done that,” Hester said. “We will now take the Prophet to the Citadel and keep him safe. Give him to us.”

Castiel took out his Angel blade. “No,” he said. “The Prophet stays with us.”

“Castiel?” Hester looked utterly perplexed. “Those are not our orders. Our orders are to take the Prophet to the Citadel.”

Castiel nodded gravely and Dean thought that the Angel would turn to him and tell him to hand Kevin over. Instead, the Angel surprised him.

“I know,” Castiel said. “I am disobeying our orders.”

Dean barely restrained himself from fist-pumping. To say that Hester and Inias looked lost, bewildered and confused would be an epic understatement.

“But,” Inias stuttered. “You’re an Angel. You _can’t_ disobey!”

Castiel shrugged; the most human gesture Dean had ever seen him make. “Apparently I _can_.”

There was another flutter of wings and Samandriel was suddenly standing beside Castiel. “I can too,” he said. “They have been lying to us, Hester, but Castiel and I learned the truth.”

Hester inclined her head and her eyes glazed over briefly.

“Zachariah is coming,” Castiel murmured.

And then all Hell broke loose in a fairly literal sense, when Demons descended upon the Angelic standoff.

“Crowley!” Hester growled, her eyes flaring bright blue.

And wow, Dean was impressed by the high level of supernatural power in the room. He knew the Acting King of Hell by reputation, but he’d never met him.

“Feathered Douchebag,” Crowley replied to Hester.

Dean sniggered and the man looked at him. “Dean Winchester,” he said.

Crowley had a British accent. And he was wearing a Pea coat. Dean was struggling to find him intimidating.

“It is an honor to meet The Righteous Man,” Crowley added, with a little bow.

Hester gasped. “No,” she said.

Dean thought she sounded frightened.

“Oh yes,” Crowley said smugly. “And you know who that is, don’t you?” he nodded at Sam.

Hester glanced at Sam, her expression quizzical.

Another flutter sounded and Zachariah’s smarmy, arrogant face was suddenly right in front of Dean.

“It’s The Abomination,” Zachariah said.

Dean frowned and looked over at Sam.

“That’s right,” Zachariah sneered. “Your beloved Sammy is The Abomination. Although the way I see it, you’re an Abomination too, the way you’ve been lusting after your brother. Not very righteous for a righteous man, are you?”

“What?” Dean said.

He had no idea what The Abomination was, but he was pretty sure that an Angel had just told him that Sam was his brother. And while Demons might lie about a thing like that, he couldn’t see why Angels would. Maybe he’d just misunderstood?

Dean turned to Sam instinctively and Sam met his eyes briefly, before lowering his gaze. His shoulders were hunched and his expression utterly miserable.

“Really?” Dean said. “You knew all along?”

“Oh yes,” Zachariah said gleefully, “He’s known all this time that he’s your baby brother. Kidnapped from under my nose by your bitch of a mother, before I could do what needed to be done. But,” Zachariah turned toward Sam, “at least now I have the opportunity to rectify that situation.”

Zachariah drew his Angel blade and Dean didn’t even think, he snatched Castiel’s blade from his hand and stabbed Zachariah in the stomach. The Angel’s eyes flared brightly and he fell to the ground, the imprint of giant wings blackening the floor beneath him.

There was a collective gasp from the Host of Angels that Zachariah had brought with him and then they turned on Castiel and Dean and attacked. The Demons, too, were keen to get into the action, and they attacked the Angels with as much vigour as the Angels were attacking Team Free Will. 

Dean was so busy ducking and weaving, slashing and stabbing that he completely lost track of Sam and the rest of his team.

Dean still had Castiel’s Angel blade; Castiel had picked up Zachariah’s and the two of them ended up standing back-to-back in the middle of the room, fighting hard. Seeing the Angels and the Demons doing battle in between ancient Greek statues that probably weren’t as old as most of the Angels was surreal, and in a brief lull in the fighting Dean allowed himself a small _how is this my life_ moment. And then he figured that was enough navel gazing; he’d better try to find out what had happened to Sam after they’d been separated in the melee.

Dean finally saw him standing in front of Kevin and Charlie, who had their backs against a wall. Beside him, Rowena was hurling fire balls at the encroaching Demons. Still, they were losing ground and as much as Dean didn’t want the Angels to get their hands on the Prophet, he wanted the Demons to get their hands on him even less.

“Cas, we need to get them outta here,” Dean said.

A moment later Samandriel was by Sam’s side. He gathered the whole group in his arms and they vanished. A couple of the Demons vanished shortly after.

“Sonofabitch!” Dean growled. “Did they follow them? Can they track them through…whatever plane you guys travel through?”

But Castiel didn’t answer; he was too busy being attacked by Raphael. And that? That was bad. Because Raphael was an Archangel and Castiel was just a Seraph. Then again, Dean was just a human and he’d managed to kill Zachariah.

By this point, the Angels had killed most of the Demons and the ones who were still alive had fled; even the Acting King himself.  

“Traitor!” Raphael snarled at Castiel.

They’d backed both Castiel and Dean up against a display cabinet. Today Raphael was in a female vessel; the first time Dean had met them, they’d been in a male vessel. Dean had been warned in advance that they wouldn’t tolerate being referred to as either male or female.

Over to their left, Samandriel reappeared—alone—Dean noted, but with a Demon hot on his tail. Samandriel and the Demon had no sooner set foot in the museum than Hester and Inias had killed them both.

“No!” Castiel cried out.

“You have been contaminated by emotion,” Raphael sneered. “You’ve consorted too long with Human Filth!”

“Hey now,” Dean said. “I’ll have you know I bathe every day.”

Raphael put the tip of the Angel blade under Dean’s chin and used it to push his head up.

 Raphael stared hard at Dean, examining him in a way that made him feel really uncomfortable.

“My vessel believes that you are attractive. She would happily copulate with you.”

Dean’s eyes darted up to Raphael’s. He had a feeling he was blushing.

Raphael inclined their head in the exact same way that Castiel often did. It always reminded Dean of an eagle inspecting a mouse it wanted to eat. “Perhaps when Michael takes you he will wish to experience the pleasures of the flesh and she will get what she desires.”

Dean frowned. “Wait. What?”

Raphael grinned. “Michael is coming. He regains his depleted power every day, but he is still weak. The Righteous Man is a suitable vessel. You will make an excellent shell for Michael’s essence until he is fully powered up once more.”

Dean scowled. “Okay, one: that just sounds nasty. And two: Hell no. He’s gotta have my consent and I don’t consent.”

“We shall see,” Raphael said. He gestured to two nearby Angels. “Take a dozen Angels and search for The Prophet,” the Angels bowed and vanished. Raphael turned to Hester and Inisas. “Take these two and lock them in a room somewhere while we await Michael’s arrival.”

 

 

Dean and Castiel were locked in a small office.  The office was warded and Hester and Inias were posted outside as guards. Both Dean and Cas had their Angel blades confiscated and they took Dean’s AK-47 too. They left him his pistol, his knife and his katana, though, which Dean thought was a little weird. He said as much to Castiel, who merely shrugged and reminded him that such weapons were of no concern to Angels.

It didn’t seem to have occurred to the Angels that Dean could use them on himself if he chose and that doing so would prevent Michael from possessing him. Something like that, it’d be a last resort, but Dean would honestly rather condemn his soul to Purgartory than allow Michael to play dress ups with him.

“How long do you think it’ll take Michael to get here?” Dean asked.

Castiel shrugged again. He was doing a lot of that lately.

“He can’t possess me if I don’t give permission, right? He’s not like a Demon is he?”

Cas shook his head. “No you have to say _yes_. But he can coerce you into saying _yes_.”

Dean frowned. “Well that’s bullshit. You Angels think you’re so high and mighty, but even us lowly humans have laws about entering people without positive consent. And coerced consent doesn’t count.”

Castiel nodded. “I suspect we have lost our way. I suspect that I am only capable of rebellion because we strayed from God’s intended Path; we thought we knew what God wanted, we thought only we could interpret his Word and we forgot some very important lessons. We forgot that a rotten tree cannot bear good fruit. We allowed ourselves to become corrupt. We deserve to be locked away.”

Dean didn’t disagree. Although he sure would miss Cas if they managed to get the Angels locked up tight in Heaven. For an Angel, the guy was alright.

Although.

“Cas? Why didn’t you tell me about Sam?”

Cas tilted his head and blinked. “You told me you knew everything about Sam.”

“Well, yeah, but I just meant that I knew he was a Hunter. I mean, I didn’t know what I didn’t know, you know?”

Castiel’s brow furrowed.

“You didn’t know that Sam was your brother?”

Dean shook his head.

“Is it not a good thing,” Castiel ventured, “to find out that one has a long lost brother?”

“Well, yeah. Except…we might have maybe kinda messed around a little.”

Castiel, of course, had no idea what Dean meant by that; in fact he had very little understanding of human sexuality, period, so Dean had to explain, and to further explain that, mostly, it was not considered cool for siblings to be attracted to each other.

Castiel didn’t understand that either. After all, Sam and Dean had not grown up together; they didn’t have a typical sibling relationship and they hadn’t met until they were fully-formed, independent adults. And they couldn’t procreate. Castiel really didn’t see what the problem was. He nodded gravely when Dean explained that it was something that was taboo in most human cultures, but he didn’t really get it.

Castiel’s complete lack of concern actually made Dean feel a little better about the fact that he found Sam attractive. But there was still the issue of Sam having lied to him, and he had a good rant to Castiel about the fact. And then had to explain to the Angel that a lie of omission was still a lie and that Sam had plenty of opportunities to tell him they were brothers, but chose not to.

“Why do you think he didn’t tell you?” Castiel asked.

Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You know what? We really don’t have time for this conversation; we should be trying to find a way out of here before Michael arrives.”

“Michael grows stronger every day, but he is still very far from full strength,” Castiel said. “It could be hours before he manages to get here. You are correct though. If we can escape, we should. Being the vessel of Michael will leave you a gibbering wreck. And there is no longer a place for me in Heaven.”

Dean swallowed. “What are your superiors planning to do to you Cas? They’re not gonna…” he made a throat slitting gesture.

“No. Michael will not order my death; we are always in need of Angelic energy. Instead he will lock me up in Heaven’s jail and submit me to endless torture as punishment for my failings.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. Escape it is.”

Although if they ever did get the Gates of Heaven shut, that would end Cas’s escape; he’d be zapped straight into the place he least wanted to be.

They spent the next half hour searching desperately for any weaknesses in either the structure of the office or the warding, but the office was in the center of the museum with no external walls and no ducts or vents of any type, and the walls were solid. Any attempt to breach them would bring in their Angelic, and armed, guards. 

“Maybe our part in this rebellion is now over,” Castiel suggested. “There is still hope for you, though, Dean. If Sam and the Prophet are able to use the information in the Angel Tablet to close the Gates before Michael takes you, then you will be safe and free.”

And that would be awesome. Except for what it would mean for Castiel.

“And you’ll get zapped into Heaven with the rest of them and tortured for eternity. There has to be some way of keeping you safe?” 

Castiel smiled. “For me, there is no escaping my fate.”

“No,” Dean shook his head. “Screw that. You’re part of the team. There’s no way we’re leaving you behind.  There has to be something we can do.”

Castiel inclined his head and then his eyes glazed over.

“What’s happening?” Dean said anxiously.

“Jimmy Novak is demanding my attention,” Castiel held up a finger. “One moment.”

Jimmy Novak. Right. The dude who Castiel was possessing. Yeah, he definitely deserved a say; it was, after all, his body. Dean shuddered. There was no way he was saying _yes_ to Michael; never going to happen.

Dean paced a little, drumming his fingers against his thigh until, finally, Castiel met his eyes.

 His expression was troubled.

“Jimmy has proposed a solution.”

“You don’t look too happy about it.”

Castiel explained that he’d been hurt quite badly in battles with Demons and monsters on several occasions over the years and that his Grace had healed Jimmy’s body, but that if he were to vacate Jimmy’s body, the loss of that Grace would send Jimmy into shock and kill him.

“Ordinarily, when I return to Heaven, I put my vessel into stasis to await my return.”

Dean pulled a face, imagining a giant cloakroom filled with human vessels, hung on hooks like coats, while their parasites enjoyed their natural form. Angels. Ugh.

“But if Sam and the Prophet are able to send us back, we will all be shocked out of our vessels; we will not be able to put them in stasis. Not all of the vessels will die, but many will. Those who do will go to their own private Heavens, a place that is inviolable. In his Heaven, Jimmy will be safe from any retribution the Angels may wish to seek from him for any imagined part he has played in my rebellion.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly. “Not seeing how this is a solution.”

“Jimmy will die when we part ways. And he is content for that to happen. In fact, he wishes for it. He says that he is sick of being tied to a comet. Those are his words. They are fairly inaccurate as I am nothing like a comet, however this is how he feels. When he dies he will see his wife Amelia again and he longs for this.”

Dean huffed. “Still not seeing the solution part, here?”

 Castiel’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “If I were to Fall, Jimmy would go to his Heaven. My Grace would convert itself into a soul and I would become…human.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Dean said. Because Castiel didn’t look happy about the prospect; not at all.

Castiel regarded him silently for a moment and then said, “No Angel would ever want to be so…limited.” He sighed. “But it would be better than the eternity of suffering currently in store for me.”

“Wow,” Dean said. “Being human…slightly better than an eternity of suffering. Thanks, Cas.” He frowned. “And how do you know they won’t torture you anyway?”

“Because I would be Human. What would be the point in hurting such a weak and vulnerable creature? No Angel would waste their time.”

“And I say again… _wow_. You do know that us ‘weak and vulnerable creatures’ have a pretty good chance of beating your arrogant Angelic asses here, right?”

Castiel looked at Dean earnestly. “I have come to have a higher appreciation of Humans than most of my brethren. I was merely stating how they would see it.”

Dean supposed he could accept that. “So, uh, how does an Angel Fall anyway?”

Castiel’s eyes glazed over again and Dean figured he was having another chat with Jimmy.

Eventually he straightened and turned to Dean, his eyes blazing fiercely.

“Give me your katana,” he said, “and I will show you.”

 

 

The wings of Angels aren’t usually visible to humans, although if an Angel ever let their power off leash, a human was often able to see their wings as a dark silhouette.

Watching Castiel hack his wings off was easily the most distressing thing Dean had ever had to witness. He couldn’t actually see the wings, but he could see the blood. And he could hear Castiel’s stifled whimpers; see the way his face was contorted in pain; see the tears of anguish coursing down his cheeks.

When their guards finally figured out what was going on, Cas had one wing off and was slicing at the other one.

“Castiel, no!” Hester cried, as she ran into their office-prison.

Inias remained outside, guarding the door.

As Hester approached, Dean shot her, multiple times. But, of course, she kept coming. She swatted him away like he was a fly. Dean collided with the wall and slid to the floor, groaning. Sonovabich. His ribs better not be cracked. He dragged himself to his feet and threw himself at Hester, jumping onto her back and digging his fingers into her face. He had no hope of besting the Angel in unarmed combat, but he wasn’t trying to. He just needed to give Cas enough time to finish his gruesome task.

“Castiel, stop!”

There was real anguish in Hester’s tone and Inias entered the fray, abandoning his post at the door, just as Castiel’s second wing fell; Dean could see its silhouette on the ground.

“Oh Castiel,” Inias said. “What have you done?”

But Castiel was curled up on the floor shaking. Dean allowed himself to drop from Hester’s back and he went and crouched over Castiel, shielding him from the Angels.

“Leave him alone,” he said. “He’s human now.”

The Angels stared at Castiel with such undisguised pity that Dean felt himself getting pissed off.

Before he could say anything—and he’d been planning to give the arrogant, pretentious douchebags an earful—there was a God-almighty clap of thunder, the room went completely dark, and when the light came back, Hester and Inias were dead on the floor.

“Stay here,” Dean said to Castiel.

The…well…former Angel was curled in a fetal position on the floor, whimpering, so the instruction probably wasn’t necessary.

Dean crept out of the office they’d been locked in and tiptoed around the museum. He didn’t find any Angels, but he did find quite a few dead bodies. He also found a few people, wandering around dazed and confused. Dean rounded up about a dozen former vessels and took them back to the office with him.

Castiel was still whimpering. Dean gave him a thorough once over. Cas was no longer bleeding and Dean could only assume that the bleeding had been staunched as part of Castiel’s conversion to Human. Physically, the former Angel was fine. Mentally? That was possibly going to be another story.

Some further exploration told Dean that the museum wasn’t actually a bad place for the former vessels to get their breath back, so to speak, because it had first rate security measures which were currently preventing all of the zombies and croats that were milling around outside from getting in. Long term, it wasn’t a good solution—aside from the little food that Dean and Cas had in their packs, there were a couple of vending machines which Dean was able to break into, but the contents wouldn’t keep them going for long.

Still, it was a start and sharing a meal together, no matter how impromptu, seemed like the thing to do.

As the former vessels sat (or lay—some of them were in a pretty bad way) and recounted their experiences as Angel hosts, Dean got the impression that, overwhelmingly, the former vessels wished they’d never said yes. Most felt they’d been conned. Dean learned their names and committed their stories to memory. In many ways he felt like he’d just been handed their testimony and that it was his sacred duty to make sure their stories weren’t forgotten. It reminded him of the discussion he’d had with Sam about mythology and oral history and he felt a little ashamed at having been so dismissive of it. In the end, he mused, we’re all just stories.

Dean spent the night ministering to the dying. A lot of the former vessels didn’t survive the night. Having been possessed quite some time ago, they succumbed to the shock of losing the Angelic Grace that had become such a part of them. Dean heard confessions and he gave last rites and he reassured people whose faith had been battered, that God was still listening; that God still had faith in humanity.  

In the end, only two of the former vessels, Michelle and Tamika made it through the night. They’d only been hosts for a few years and were keen to seek out their families and reconnect.

Castiel was doing better by the next day as well. He seemed less shocked, although he was horrified by his new need to undertake bodily functions and quietly confided to Dean that he didn’t think he’d ever get used to urination.

“Just wait ‘til you need to poop,” Dean said with a smirk, smacking the former Angel on the shoulder.

Castiel looked downright terrified.

As a human, Cas was a little strange and Dean hoped he’d be able to handle himself in a fight; because there was still the matter of the horde of freaks outside the museum that they were going to have to get past.

Dean spent the morning up on the roof of the building, trying to figure out a way to sneak everybody out past said freaks. To be honest it wasn’t looking good; not unless he could get his hands on some ingredients he could use to make some explosives. And even then, it would be difficult.

Dean had just decided that he would go and ransack the janitor’s supply room to see what chemicals were available, when there was an ominous rumble of thunder, followed by a bright flash of light, followed by a brief interlude of darkness. When the light returned, the hordes of freaks had been replaced by a giant pile of ash.

“Holy shit!” he whistled.

Dean ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and practically careened into Castiel.

“Cas,” he gasped. “The freaks; they’ve gone!”

“Ah,” Cas smiled. “I expect the second tablet, the one we had yet to open when Hester arrived, was the Demon tablet. It would make sense that it would contain instructions for sending all demonic entities back to Hell—or destroying them in the case of abominable creations such as the croats and the zombies—and for closing and locking the gates to Hell.”

Dean couldn’t help fist pumping and crowing obnoxiously. “Way to go Sam and Kevin!”

Between the four of them, they rounded up all the dead vessels and cremated them on a giant pyre. The museum had beautiful gardens and Dean thought it made a fitting final resting place for the former vessels. The group then made their way cautiously into the city center, raiding shops for the supplies they’d need for their journeys. Michelle and Tamika were originally from the Northwest; Oregon and Washington State, respectively, and planned to travel together up the west coast.

Dean and Castiel wished them well and they went their separate ways, the women heading north on the freeway, on bicycles they’d liberated from a sporting goods store, and Dean and Castiel heading south east, back to the Impala.

Dean sat down behind the steering wheel and stroked his hands over it reverently.

“Oh, Baby,” he said. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment.”

Castiel looked supremely sceptical. “Can you drive her?” he asked.

Dean reached up behind the sun visor. “Spare key,” he said. “Foot on brake. Start engine. Put car into drive. Accelerate.”

The car slid smoothly forward and Dean whooped.

“I have quite _literally_ been dreaming about this. Every night now, for a while. I _know_ how to do this; it’s like an instinct.”

As they drove the freeway, heading toward Arizona, Dean felt a sense of rightness settle into his bones. He also, unerringly, knew that he was heading in the right direction; heading toward Sam.

He was still angry with Sam for not telling him the truth, they would need to clear the air about that, but there was no question in Dean’s mind that he and Sam belonged together, whether as lovers or brothers or both only time would tell. 

Dean Winchester was finally going home and it was a good feeling.


	8. Epilogue

_There’s a saying that’s often misquoted: Blood is thicker than water, people say, and they think it means that genetic family ties are stronger than anything. The full quote is: The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, which means that the bonds forged on the battle field are stronger than those forged by simple genetics. Of course, there’s nothing simple about genetics and when you don’t grow up with your brother, but you do spend a lot of time in combat with him, there are a lot of very intense feelings. Dean and I don’t really have any boundaries. I’ve never been sure whether that’s a good thing or not. **Letters, 8:11, The Winchester Gospels**_

 

The curtain that separated Sam’s sleeping quarters from the main area of the Hogan was pushed back and his mom stuck her head in.

“How you doing, baby?” she said.

Sam sat up. His hangover wasn’t too bad this morning; not as bad as he’d been expecting anyway. He’d been drinking with Ruby last night and, boy, could she really put it away. He had a feeling she might’ve hit on him too, but his memories of some parts of the evening were a little vague.

Ruby was from one of the latest batches of formerly-possessed people who’d wandered in seeking Sanctuary. A lot of the communities which had suffered at the hands of Demons were meting out revenge on their vessels and a steady trickle of former Demon hosts had started to arrive in Tséyi. Others were coming too; mostly people who’d suffered horribly at the hands of one supernatural entity or another and who needed a period of respite. Some talked of following a bright star. Others just shrugged and said _something_ had guided them.

Ruby thought that getting drunk was a great solution to dealing with the horrors she’d been through and Sam…Sam was drowning his sorrows a little too often these days, if truth be told.

“Is there news?” Sam asked his mom.

“The last of our scouting teams is back,” she sighed. “Brought another bunch of survivors back with them too. God knows where we’re gonna put ‘em all. I think we’re gonna have to clean up one of the old pre-Revelation camp sites. Or maybe set up something permanent in Santa Fe. Anyway. Bottom line? There’s no sign of Angels or Demons anywhere. The Hell pits all seem to have sealed up too and there are no freaks left in any of the known Hot zones. There are still some monsters around, and some of the Fae are still here as well. Still. It’s good news. You and Kevin…sweetheart…what you did…you were amazing.”

Sam ducked his head. “The spell wasn’t all that complicated. And we already had all the ingredients. I’m just glad Samandriel was able to pick up on the images I was praying at him and drop us so close to home.”

When the Angel had taken them under his wings and teleported them away, he’d hopped from non-descript Badland spot to non-descript Badland spot, bamboozling the following Demons with the sameness of the landscapes, and then he’d dropped the team off just outside of Tséyi and hidden them, before teleporting straight off again, dragging the following Demons with him.  Sam hoped that he’d fared alright—although he doubted there would’ve been a good outcome for the rebel Angel when he and Kevin managed to get the gates of Heaven shut. Being shut in with the very people you’d been rebelling against wasn’t the kind of thing that sounded like a lot of fun.

Sam frequently found himself wondering what had happened to Castiel too. He didn’t know the Angel well, but he’d really come through for them at the end there.  And Dean was close to him.

The thought of Dean, punched him in the gut like it always did, because the Preacher was surely lost to him now, in any capacity.

Sam fiddled with the edge of his quilt, as he remembered the look of confusion and horror on Dean’s face when Zachariah had spilled the beans about them being brothers. And his subsequent anger when he’d realized that Sam had known all along.

When the fighting had broken out he’d had Sam sent away as quickly as possible, and yes, humanity needed Sam and Kevin to be free so that they could shut the gates of Heaven and Hell, but Sam still couldn’t help feeling that Dean had sent him away because he couldn’t stand the sight of him and didn’t want anything more to do with him. Sam was quietly gutted that it was Castiel and not him who’d been fighting back-to-back with Dean. It just felt _wrong_.

He was fairly sure that Dean was still alive, but in all honesty, he wasn’t coping very well without him. Sam had always assumed that he would return home to Tséyi with Dean by his side and he knew his mom was disappointed that he hadn’t brought Dean home.

Sam hadn’t even managed to hook up with either of his regular lovers in the month he’d been home either—he just…couldn’t.

Kevin, Charlie and Rowena had settled in happily with the Hunter community and that, at least, was something Sam was happy about.

Rowena had found herself a place in the Cave of Seers; she and Pamela had become great pals and Rowena was truly enjoying being in a place where the Elders respected her for her talent in witchcraft. Both Charlie and Kevin were working with Bobby in the Library and by all accounts doing a fantastic job; which was probably just as well, because Sam was mostly working on keeping his hangover at bay these days.

Losing Dean _hurt_.

“Also,” Sam’s mom added, with a twinkle in her eye, “our Lookout at Spider Rock reports that there’s a black Impala making its way toward Tséyi.”

Sam’s eyes widened and he scrambled out of bed. “What? Really?”

His mom smiled softly. “Really. So how about you get yourself ready and go and wait at the Gatehouse?”

 

 

Dean looked good. That was Sam’s first thought. His second thought was _what the Hell_ , because Castiel stepped out of the car only a moment after Dean, along with a blonde-haired teenaged girl.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said. He spread his arms out wide. “I know. I look amazing, don’t I?”

“Dean? Is it really you?”

“In the flesh, little brother.”

Sam couldn’t help stiffening. So Dean accepted that they were brothers and wasn’t afraid to bring it up, right off the bat.

“Hey,” Dean spared a quick glance for the snipers, who were just waiting for a signal from Sam that Dean wasn’t who he seemed to be, and then he stepped right up to Sam so that they were practically toe-to-toe. “I understand why you didn’t tell me. This thing between us, it was there right from the start. And that must’ve been confusing for you. I’m not gonna lie, I was pissed for weeks, but,” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve missed you man. My life…doesn’t feel right without you by my side. So here I am.”

Sam’s heart was beating triple time. He could barely believe this was really happening.

He was quite honestly lost for words, so he didn’t use any, just threw himself into Dean’s arms for a long, heartfelt hug.

Finally, he pulled back and looked at his brother. “I can’t believe you’re here. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Dean shook his head. “I didn’t really cope all that well without you. Luckily, I had Cas here to keep me sane.”

“Hello, Sam,” Cas stepped forward. “Do we…do we hug? I am…uncertain of the correct protocol.”

Sam rolled his eyes and pulled the Angel in for a hug. “How are you still here? Why didn’t you get zapped.”

“It’s a long story,” Dean said.

“I cut off my wings and Fell,” said Castiel.

Dean frowned and rubbed at the back of his neck, “Okay, not that long I guess. Bottom line? Cas is human now.”

The blonde girl snorted. “And he sucks at it. First thing this douche said to me?” she lowered her voice and adopted a gravelly tone. “ _I am not your father. Your father is dead_.”

Sam winced.

“Right?” said the girl. “Total douchebag.”

Castiel endeavoured to look contrite. Dean grimaced.

“Sam Campbell, meet Claire Novak. Cas’s former vessel’s daughter. He promised Jimmy he’d find her and look after her.”

Claire snorted again and rolled her eyes. Both Dean and Castiel looked like it was a promise they were regretting.

“C’mon,” Sam said to the trio. “I’ll show you around. Introduce you to some people.”

Sam got into the front of the Impala with Dean driving and Castiel and Claire in the back seat.

Dean in the drivers’ seat, Sam sitting shotgun. Cas in the back. It just felt so right.

Between them, Dean and Cas explained everything that had gone down after Samandriel had whisked Sam and the others away. Sam was gutted when he learned that Samandriel had died, but as least he wasn’t locked up in Heaven being endlessly tortured, so there was that.  Sam in turn explained how Samandriel had left them just outside of Dinétah and how they’d walked until they’d come to the first outpost, where Bobby had been waiting with a Jeep to take them to see the Elders.

Kevin had translated the spell necessary to shut the gates of Heaven, they’d gathered the necessary ingredients and all the Elders; both Hunter and Diné; all the Seers, and Rowena had worked together to make it happen.

“It took a lot of power,” Sam said. “But working together, we got it done.”

In the meantime, Kevin had broken open and translated the other tablet and once they realized they could close the Gates of Hell too, they got straight onto it.

“By the time that was done, everyone was completely drained,” Sam said.

They arrived at the base of the Cliff Caves where just about the entire Clan was waiting to greet them.

“Dean,” Sam said as they got out of the car together, “This is--”

“Mom?” Dean said.

Mary approached him cautiously and Sam watched as the Preacher morphed into a six year old boy, before his eyes. How a grown man could look so small and vulnerable was beyond him.

 “Oh baby,” Mary threw her arms around Dean and hugged him tightly. “I’m so sorry that I left you.”

“It’s okay, mom,” Dean said. “Cas explained about Zachariah. Apparently I’m suitable to be Michael’s vessel and Sam’s suitable to be Lucifer’s vessel, but in every universe where they tried to use us like that, we managed to stop the Apocalypse. Killing Michael’s vessel would’ve been sacrilege apparently, but killing Lucifer’s? That would’ve been okay.”

Sam’s heart was triple somersaulting. “I’m compatible with _Lucifer_?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean waved him off. “It’s just because you’re an annoying little brother. And something boring to do with bloodlines. Besides, Michael and Lucifer wearing us to the Prom was a pretty lame storyline if you ask me,” Dean turned to face Sam, his eyes soft. “You once tried to tell me that myths tell us actual truths and that the exact form the myths take—the stories that we learn and hand down—just depend on the culture we’re from. I get that now. And I gotta say I like the Diné and Hopi stories better. If we follow the Diné story we get to be Changing Woman’s sons Monster Slayer and Born-for-water and we get to travel around keeping the People safe from monsters. In the Hopi story the brothers—that’s us, Sammy—we unite all of the world’s cultures and bring about a new era,” Dean shrugged. “I don’t see why we can’t do both.” 

Both Joe Yazzie and Grandpa Samuel were nodding approvingly at Dean, so of course, Mary had to introduce him to the rest of the family and afternoon turned into evening and it soon became apparent that they were having a party.

Mary, of course, wanted to know all about Dean’s life and Dean told her about growing up on the road with his dad; about being lonely and feeling that something important was missing.

He told them all about his journey from Los Angeles to Tséyi, heading unerringly for Sam. For home.

He told them about the three days of the full moon they’d spent laid up because of Dean’s bad leg. He explained the nature of his injury and Missouri offered to have a look at it later, to see if there was any way of curing the affliction.

“I may have to ask the Wolves,” she said.

Dean looked at her, face etched with horror.

Missouri rolled her eyes. “I’m not talking feral wolves bitten by outcasts, I’m talking about the Wolf-born clans. They’re not monsters, Dean. They’re in complete control of their shifting and behavior.  This brave new world we’re ushering in? It’s gonna have some so-called ‘supernatural’ elements to it, you know.”

Dean couldn’t help feeling sceptical, but he was willing to have his opinion on werewolves changed.

There were far worse humans, he supposed, like the scavenger crew they’d got into a fight with just outside of Phoenix. He told his audience about that one and they listened, rapt.

“And then about a week ago, we stopped to syphon gas at this one gas station,” Dean said, “and the mini mart attached to it was pretty untouched. So I went through looking for anything useful. There was a short guy with a blondish beard and blue eyes in there. Said he was looking for toilet paper,”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know what his deal was, but he made my pendant glow. And then he gave me this,” Dean went over to his pack and pulled out a small piece of stone with some carvings on it. He handed it to Grandpa Samuel. “Do you know what this is? The guy told me to take it home with me.”

Samuel turned it over in his hand and then passed it to Bill Yazzie, Joe’s father and—along with his wife, Suzi—the current leader of the Diné Clan. Bill studied the small portion of stone carefully and then looked up, his expression shocked. “If I’m right,” he said, “this is a small portion of the Hopi Fire Stone. It is a sign that you really are Pahana, the lost white brother, and that you are truly home. A new era will now begin.”

There was an upswell of excited chatter at that and Sam looked around contentedly.

Over in one corner, two of the newcomers, Jodie and Donna, were mothering Claire for all they were worth. In another, Castiel was talking to Pamela and Rowena, and another newcomer, Meg, saying something about a dragonfly’s eye and suggesting that maybe they should have an orgy.

Sam raised his eyebrows and looked questioningly at Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “He’s, uh, a little different since he cut off his wings. He’s still trying to figure out how to be human,” Dean ducked his head and paused. “So listen,” he ventured, “this evening’s been great, but it’s all a little overwhelming and I’m tired. Is there somewhere I could go to…lie down?”

Sam led him to his quarters in the Sleeping Cave.

“You can have my bed. I’ll head back to Mom and Joe’s Hogan and sleep there instead.”

“Oh,” Dean bit at his lip. “I was kind of hoping that you could…sleep here too?”

“Yeah?” Sam looked searchingly into his brother’s face.

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not…expecting anything. It’s just, uh, I sleep better when you’re beside me.”

Sam bit at his lip and nodded. Of course. It would be stupid to expect anything. He swallowed his disappointment. When Dean had asked him to stay, for one brief moment, Sam had hoped it meant that Dean still wanted him—even now that he knew the truth.

Dean was watching him closely. “You pretty much told me, back when we were on the road, that…us together…wouldn’t be totally taboo in the Hunter community. So long as we didn’t have kids, which, you know, ain’t a thing that’s gonna happen.”

Sam felt his hopes stir again. “Yeah,” he nodded. “I wasn’t lying about that.”

Dean nodded. “I really missed you,” he said.

“I missed you too,” said Sam.

Dean stared at him and then looked away, down at the floor. “I ain’t so good at this. You know. Talking. Feelings. I’m better at action. So.”

He stood up, stripped quickly and got into bed naked.

“And I’m all in, Sam. Brother. Lover. Whatever we find works. If you just want to sleep, that’s cool. But just so you know, I still really want you.”

Sam took a deep, shuddering breath.

“No more lies between us, okay?” Dean said.

Sam nodded. “I’m all in too,” he said, pulling off his clothes.

Dean watched with a hungry expression and by the time Sam slipped into bed beside him, Dean’s pupils were blown wide open.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean asked. “I really want to kiss you.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed.

Dean lips were soft at first; he kissed tentatively and then harder, his hands cradling Sam’s head, holding it in place so that he could devour Sam’s mouth hungrily. Eventually, when they were both breathless and hard, he pulled back.

“You also told me that one of the biggest taboos was not having fully informed consent. That’s what was holding you back, wasn’t it? The fact that I didn’t know about the brother thing?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “I’ve wanted you since before I met you, when you were only a guy in my dreams and my visions and I didn’t know who you were. But then I found out that we were brothers…and…I didn’t know what to do. I still wanted you. But...you and I working together, stopping the Apocalypse, it was too important to take any risks.”

“But we’re okay now, right?”

Sam nodded.

Dean slid a hand down and took Sam’s stiff cock in his hand. “Then listen to me very carefully little brother. I want you to fuck me now, so hard that I can’t walk straight tomorrow. Is that consent _clear and informed_ enough for you?”

“Oh yeah,” Sam said, reaching for the lubricating ointment he kept on his lamp table. “On your back, big brother.”

Dean’s eyes darkened, but he complied, rolling over and then spreading his legs, in a slow, calculated move.

Sam swallowed. “Fuck, Dean.”

Dean’s lips turned up and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “That’s the general idea,” he reached down and began to stroke himself slowly, his eyes never leaving Sam’s.

Sam’s own cock jumped and strained, and he swallowed hard.

“Hands off,” he said, his voice deeper and raspier than before. “That’s mine.”

Dean gave a whole body shudder. “Ooh, Sammy,” he teased, “I get all tingly when you take control like that.”

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed Dean’s hand out of the way so that he could suck his brother down to the root.

“Ngh!” Dean gasped. He would’ve arched off the bed completely if Sam hadn’t been holding his hips down.

Sam hollowed his cheeks and slid his lips slowly up the length of Dean’s cock. He sucked hard at the head, swiping his tongue around the helmet and licking hard at the sensitive nub on the underside, before swallowing him back down again.

Dean began to babble, a litany of incoherent nonsense, interspersed with cursing and blasphemy as Sam licked and sucked and squeezed, his tongue an arrow of heat, and his mouth hot and wet, and _oh so good, Sammy_.

Sam waited until Dean was almost ready to come and then he pulled off.

“No!” Dean groaned, shoving his hips up, chasing sensation.

“Wait,” Sam said, pushing him back down and holding him in place.

Sam coated two fingers with lube and pushed them into Dean without preamble, thrusting and stretching, and finding the sensitive spot inside that made his brother moan and plead.

Sam added more lube and took his time opening Dean up, driving in deep and flexing his fingers until Dean’s hole was fluttering easily around the intrusion, no resistance left. Dean was squirming and rocking his hips as he tried to drive Sam deeper. The noises he was making were desperate and filthy and it wasn’t long before he was begging Sam to fuck him, to get that big dick in him already, to give it to him good and hard. Finally, when Sam was on the verge of coming untouched just from listening to his brother’s dirty mouth, he fisted himself with lube-slick fingers and pushed Dean’s legs back over his head. Sam positioned himself so that the tip of his dick was _right there_ ; nestled right against Dean’s opening, and then he met his brother’s eyes.

Dean’s eyes were barely even green, so lust-blown were they, and he’d almost bitten through his bottom lip in his unsuccessful attempts to keep quiet.

“Tell me you want this,” Sam said, and his voice was so deep and rough that he almost didn’t recognize it himself.

Dean nodded frantically. “God, yes. Want it Sam. Want _you_ , so bad, please, Sam, please give it to me,” the sentence ended in a loud inarticulate moan as Sam slammed in deep with one long, hard, inexorable thrust, claiming his brother, body and soul. 

 

 

The next day, their mom suggested that if the two of them were going to be a _thing_ , they might like to build themselves a private Hogan, because Dean sure was noisy in bed. Dean hadn’t been raised in the same open environment as the Hunters and it took a little getting used to. It was days before he could meet Mary’s eyes again.

 

 

Dean was happy, living with Sam in their Hogan, but he felt there was a lot left undone and the tales brought in by survivors and visiting Hunters seemed to confirm as much. The Angels vanishing had created a huge power vacuum, which both the Preachers and the Scavengers and various other groups were trying to fill.

“We need to be out there,” Dean said to Sam one day, when they were lying in bed together, sweaty and tangled. “On the road. Just you and me. Saving people, hunting things. Uniting everyone and ushering in that new era that’s supposed to happen. Maybe we could even check in on Dad. Explain Zachariah’s lies to him.”

Sam agreed and so did the Elders, and so once again, Sam packed up the Impala, only this time, there was no portal, they simply drove away, out onto the open road, toward the future, with Led Zeppelin blaring from the tape deck.

“Can you feel it, Sammy?” Dean said as he put the pedal to the metal. “We’ve got work to do.” 

**_The End._ **

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the story. If you have I'd love to hear from you! And if anyone notices any heinous errors that my beta reader and I have overlooked, I'd love to hear from you too!  
> Thank you so much for reading. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art Masterpost - And The Moon Became As Blood. - Zara_Zee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14962646) by [millygal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal)




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